


Perfect Match

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Perfect Match Omegaverse [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BDSM, Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/F, M/M, Mpreg, Omegaverse, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, S&M, cases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 63
Words: 178,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John meets an enigmatic detective who he is immediately certain is his Perfect Match, but seems uninterested in bonding. He devotes himself to the man only to realize that the normally observant man has overlooked something important about him: he is a rare Alpha Sub and the exact opposite of Sherlock's Omega Dom. As circumstances conspire to keep them apart John despairs that he will ever be with the one person who makes him feel complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

John had learned very quickly in the military that his dynamic needed to be a complete secret. Alpha was easily scented, of course, but his dynamic was something that could only be found out by seeing his mis-matched tattoos or watching his behavior. Only Alpha’s and Beta’s were allowed to sign up for the Queen’s army. It had been fought at one point, but suppressants that weren’t kept up meant an Omega in a POW camp would end up going into heat. Omega’s were still fighting for the right to join on strict homebound reserves, but the military was hesitant to create branches just for a gender they felt should be at home making babies.  That’s what the government was for with it’s huge buildings full of brilliant minded Omega’s and their bouncing babies.

Which was why it was such a shock when anyone found out John was a Submissive. Alpha Submissives were rare, though not as rare as John’s perfect match, the Omega Dominant, and John had learned a few techniques in basic training that allowed him to imitate Dominant Traits.

His techniques didn’t always work, though, which was how he ended up tied to a bunk bed as if it were a St. Andrew’s Cross, being flogged by three horny bunkmates. He was enjoying it; of course, his submissive side had barely ever been indulged between school (who wants a weirdo like you?) and University (mostly Omega Subs).  Now he was panting and moaning under the firm hand of his comrades, his cock leaking copiously, as he squirmed and begged for more.

Until he felt the hard, thick head of an Alpha cock against his entrance, pushing insistently against his dry hole; his mind may have been Submissive, but his body was all Alpha. No natural lubrication, and these horny non-coms wouldn’t have thought to use any. Even with lubrication he wouldn’t be able to take their knots, just the tips, it would literally tear him apart. He’d bleed out!

“Oh, god, stop! Cinnamon! _Cinnamon!! Cinnamon!!!”_

John felt the first burn of entry, sobbing as an entirely unwelcome pain flooded his backside, when his safety-word-triggered-pheromones finally reached the Alpha attempting to mount him. The man pulled out, tearing John more, and made disgusted gagging sounds. John heard the sound of them snatching at clothes to bring over their mouths and noses. He couldn’t smell himself, of course, but Doms had told him that a Sub’s safety-word scent was like a skunk had sprayed you straight in the face. One could both smell and taste it, and it was _repellant_.

_Good,_ John thought, _That’s what it’s supposed to be._

Someone opened a window before all three Alphas fled the compound’s room, leaving the door open. The hallway and the area directly outside would be filled with the scent. He’d probably overdone it a bit by using his word three times. John hung there, mortified and slowly going limp, as he realized what would happen next. Someone would eventually come to investigate the sound, to discover if there was an injured Omega Sub somewhere who had gotten desperate enough to think or say his or her safety word. He’d be untied, treated by his own medical team for his injuries, and given a dressing down for allowing himself to get placed in that position in the first place. He was an officer. He was supposed to be the one commanding the troops, even if he wasn’t line-of-fire. He wasn’t supposed to be dallying with non-coms and getting himself in _situations_.

“Fuck’s sake, John. I promoted you so this shit wouldn’t happen.” His C.O.’s voice sounded so disappointed that John instinctively keened, his submissive side trying to sooth the Dom he saw as ‘his’. Not that any Dom would ever be his. John was an abnormality. No Alpha Dom wanted a Sub he couldn’t have sex with. Even sex club owners rolled their eyes and asked him to limit his time there.

“I’m not trying to Dom you, but that did improve the stink in here,” Commander Lisa Evans stepped forward and tugged the release on John’s wrist, instinctively catching him and lowering him gently to the floor. A nervous glance down revealed that her Alpha-styled loose pants remained so. John wasn’t the least bit tempting at the moment, despite being trussed up like sex incarnate.

Two days later he limped into a transport and was born away on his third transfer. The C.O. that met him scowled at him and handed him yet another promotion.

“Congrats, Captain, keep this up and you’ll be ordering me around. Just for the record, if I find you with so much as a hicky I’m not going to stop it. I’m going to let them fuck you to death. This is the front, I don’t have time to pamper a _Sub_. You got that, _Captain Watson_.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Fuck straight, ‘thank you, sir’. Now get your ass to H.Q. so the Major can get you sorted.”

John squared his shoulders, adopted his ‘Dom swagger’ and headed for the tent marked ‘H.Q.’. No buildings here. He’d gotten himself promoted all the way to the front. He knew what it meant. They were tired of his ‘problem dynamic’. If he were lucky he’d get shot before anyone below the rank of Captain noticed him. If not he’d end up lashed to another bed getting his insides screwed out of him by amorous and lonely soldiers. They’d be even more desperate out here.

As it happened the Major turned out to be a decent sort with two Omega Sub sisters and one Omega Sub brother, who had all ganged up and beaten him to a pulp on a regular basis as a kid. He fondly recounted the stories of being trounced by his ‘weaker kin’. John knew he’d been found out immediately, gave up all pretenses, and dropped to his knees with the intention of begging the man for help. Surely he’d feel some amount of pity for a Sub given his story?

“Get up, son, none of that here. Now then, let’s go over a few things and we’ll see if we can’t make you into a proper Captain yet.”

Major Denton worked with John whenever he could, cutting both their sleep and his own paperwork short, and by the time a year had passed John could ignore the aggressive stares of anyone below the rank of Major. He could no longer be Dom’d by presence alone. By the time Major Denton bought his own ticket home, in a coffin, unfortunately, John no longer responded to anyone’s Dom Voice unless he wanted to or had to because of rank. He hadn’t been on his knees in so long that when he fell to them beside the Major’s stretcher it actually hurt from disuse.

“Every day’s a bad day, in the service of the Queen,” John sobbed, and felt the immediate withdrawal of the doctors around him. It was a song they all knew too well. Surgeons sang it throughout the MASH unit whenever they had to work on someone who was truly close to them. It was a way, without saying the words, to ask for either help- because you just couldn’t keep cutting- or privacy- because there was nothing more to be done.

_Every day’s a bad day  
In the service of the Queen._

_On the good days you stitch them up  
And send them out to be slain._

_But every day’s a bad day,  
In the service of the Queen._

_On the bad day you decorate  
Their toes with tags of green_

_But every day’s a bad day,  
In the service of the Queen._

_On the good days they come back,  
with wounds to dress and clean._

_But every day’s a bad day,  
In the service of the Queen._

_On the bad days they leave  
And ne’er come back again._

_But every day’s a bad day,  
In the service of the Queen._

It helped them remember that getting attached was the worse thing a field doctor or MASH unit surgeon could do for himself or herself. It helped them cope and stay cold and withdrawn. It helped… but only so much, because most of them had been there for years and eventually someone came through whom you knew. Someone you drank one two many beers with. Someone who helped you rise above the weakness in your own mind and stand proud and tall in the Queens Army.

For Queen and Country. For Queen and Country, John packed up his Major and his ‘bad day’, dried his eyes, scrubbed his hands, and went back into the O.R. to patch up the next poor soul to have his own ‘bad day’.

It would be years before John had another ‘bad day’ and this time it was his own. He was no longer part of the mobile hospital; he’d been deployed with an actual platoon. He was running towards a downed comrade when the bullet tore his shoulder apart. He lay there in the dirt wondering who would patch him up. Pitying the medic who sang over his body, as he doubtlessly knew them all by now. Pitying himself for dying alone and dirty in the sands of Afghanistan.

_Please god, let me live._

XXXXXXXX

“Oh, use your imagination,” It took a moment for John to blink and bring himself back to today. This strange man, who he’d witlessly followed about; who exuded Dominance as if it were a physical presence instead of a chemical process.

“I don’t have to.” John reminded him, expecting a wince or some kind of reaction, but he got none. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the least bit sorry he’d reminded a recently invalided home soldier that he’d been shot and nearly died; high functioning sociopath, indeed.

“Yeah, but if you were clever, _really_ clever. Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers. She _was_ clever. She’s trying to tell us something.”

John was still uselessly holding his cane in his hand. He’d just run around London as fast as he could after a mad Omega, who Dom’d him with his very eyes, who’d made him laugh harder than he had in years, who was pacing his – _their_ \- flat trying to solve a murder while half of NSY searched it for drugs, who he’d just a moment ago defended to those same police…

_Oh, god, I’m defending him as though I’m his Sub. He’s my fucking Dom and I barely know him. It wasn’t just now, either, it was before: with that creepy bloke with the umbrella. Major Denton, what the fuck is this? I’m not prepared for it. You never taught me._

Then he was running again, this time alone with a laptop in hand, searching a building, desperate to save something he’d never had before, and then firing his gun through a window. Hands steady. So very steady. Perfect shot.

“Excellent shot,” Sherlock murmured, and John thrilled all the way to his toes.

_Praise from a Dom, oh god, I’ve never felt that before._

This was out of control. He knew it was, but the Omega Dom, and John was certain this man was one, though he’d never laid eyes on one before, seemed unconcerned. In the restaurant earlier he’d dismissed John’s nervous questioning, thinking it a pull, though it hadn’t been. John had been feeling him out, trying to figure out if this man intended to take him as his own. Married to his work, he’d said, and had clearly been uncomfortable with the idea of John being interested in him sexually. Yet he spent every waking moment Dom’ing John as if he had collared him years ago.

_I can live with this. I can work around it. I can have some modicum of comfort from him. Without the strings. Without the expectations. It will be enough. It will keep me from eating my gun like so many veteran statistics._

Except, would it? When the strange Omega went into heat? How did an Omega Dom and an Alpha Sub even have sex? Watching the aloof man play his violin in front of the window, stroking the bow sensually across the strings as tearful music filled the flat, John wondered if this was as close as he would ever get to finding out.

[CHAPTER TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/58241.html)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N I’m going to be following the (very abridged) series for Season 1 only, after that I’ll branch off and make up some of my own crimes, revisit the show’s plot, go off on tangents, etc. I need to establish their relationship as closely to the series as possible before blowing it (and hopefully your minds) wide open.

 

The relationship with his Omega Dom was an odd duck, to be sure. Sherlock didn’t mind John’s privacy; he treated John’s things as his own and rolled his eyes at John’s attempts to get a job. John’s hints of needing money or being interested in a girl had no reaction whatsoever, nor did his correcting “friend” to be “colleague”. Apparently he was free to date, but not free to have any kind of privacy, and should expect no type of Alpha-care. Which was fine, frankly, because _he_ was the Alpha, as he’d more than proven when he’d shot a man for threatening ‘his Omega’. Or whatever the hell they were to each other. 

He pretended not to see the abrasions around Sherlock’s neck when he came downstairs from the flat in Chinatown. He knew what a strangling looked like. He knew the sounds a throat made when someone had been choked a bit too much. He tried to convince Sherlock that he _had_ to stop leaving him behind, but it was a difficult argument to pose when Sherlock stubbornly pretended nothing had happened. John didn’t know how to respond to that. He had to keep close to Sherlock. He had to protect him, but he was certain that Sherlock didn’t truly trust him yet.

Those thoughts only made the guilt worse when the lovely Omega Sub Soo Lin lay dead on the floor. Sherlock had left her in his care; he should have protected her but Sherlock was getting _shot_ at. However, Sherlock did not reprimand or punish him. Sherlock behaved as though she never mattered: just a lost lead. John soldiered on.

John was going on a date; a date that Sherlock managed to join, despite John’s discomfort. While John stood in a hallway and tried to express his discomfort at an ‘open relationship’ by explaining he only wanted to get off with _Sarah_ … well that hadn’t gone well. Sherlock hadn’t understood and seemed not to know what an open relationship was, but Sarah had heard him and he was left feeling as though he were wearing two left shoes for the rest of the night. Until the fighting started, of course, at which point his Alpha Domme date managed to out show him in a fight and protect Sherlock. He tried not to be furious about that. It was only instinct for an Alpha to protect an Omega. He should have known that it was all for the case, anyway. It was only ever about _the work._

Sarah was a dream. She was excited about the work he and Sherlock were doing, ignored Sherlock when he was being a dick, and gave John real hope that he could balance his plutonic relationship with Sherlock and a sexual one with a woman; until the man at the door turned out to be an abductor instead of a deliveryman.

John lay in his bed afterwards, after being tied up and held at gunpoint, after watching Sherlock save his date’s life, after lying there and not meeting his eyes as Sherlock untied him. Dazed and confused was an understatement. Oh, he understood how they mistook him for Sherlock; who would believe an Omega was running about London solving crimes? What had him frustrated and confused was the desire he’d felt while bound to that chair. Hell, the Alpha Domme, Shan, had pointed a gun at him (unloaded, but he hadn’t known that) and he’d nearly climaxed in his pants. He’d left with his arm around Sarah’s shoulder, but she hadn’t seemed open to any post-adrenalin shag. Neither had Sherlock, of course, but John was coming to expect that. He still wasn’t sure how that would work out, anyway. He had no urge to bottom; did Sherlock have an urge to top? Where did Alpha/Omega genders and Dominant/Submissive traits cross lines? Or were they definitively separate?

“I need to get laid,” John sighed, but he had little chance of that occurring.

When Sarah had left with barely a goodbye he had excused himself from Sherlock’s presence and headed to the nearest Companion Club; a club that turned out to be completely devoid of female Alphas. Three hours and far too many beers later he had given up and gone home. Even when he showed the other club guests his tattoos to convince them he was a Sub, that he only wanted Domination, they only gave him a look of disgust and avoided him. His military bearing made them think cop, and an Alpha topping a male Alpha was illegal. They thought it was a set-up: never mind that the club was specifically for D/s _without_ sex. The doorman asked him not to return and gave him his cover charge back.

Though John had dated female Alpha’s before, they usually only dated him because he was exotic. The only reason Sarah had shown interest was because his Dynamic had been listed on his job application, so she’d known from the start he was a Sub. She was also far more tolerant then most people he’d met. Most of John’s sexual experience was with female Omega Subs who had given him a chance. They all left after the first time they had sex with him, no matter how hard he held back his disgust and tried every trick in the Sadism Manual. Same speech, every time: _I’m sorry, but I need more than a big cock. I need a_ real _Dominant._

With a sigh of frustration John pulled out his kit from under his bed. He’d been given it as a gag gift by his last C/O. It was a Submissive’s Self-Pleasure Kit. Some of the stuff was downright dangerous to do alone, but John was desperate. A few minutes of reading over the instructions and he’d tied himself to the bed, but only his torso, legs, and right arm. One tug at a specific rope would release him, but otherwise he could twist and pull to his heart’s content. A suspension kit lowered a collar around his neck, from which a rope hung down near his bound right hand so that he could pull on it and choke himself. He didn’t usually enjoy gasping, but after seeing Sherlock being choked earlier he was gagging for it… no pun intended. He wasn’t going to go far with it, anyway. Just as far as this fantasy was headed. A set of alligator nipple clamps completed his Submissive toy collection.

The final toys didn’t come from this kit, as it only included Omega pleasure toys, and John had no reason to insert vibrating toys with inflatable knots into his body. The size of some of them would damage his Alpha body, anyway. He’d tossed those in the trash when he’d gotten the kit. Instead, he’d stocked it with Alpha pleasure toys. An inflatable doll, lube, a cockstroker, a knotsqueezer, and a few tubes of Omega scent (‘Heat’, ‘Non-Heat’, and ‘In Danger’) were laid out before him.

His free left hand tucked the knotsqueezer around his throbbing member and pumped it up until it was just a bit tight. Once his knot began to swell it would become tight enough to trigger ejaculation. The more expensive ones, which he couldn’t afford, had a pump that made it tighten and release repeatedly to simulate the Omega orgasm as well. He’d already applied lube to the cockstroker, now he took it by the handle and ran it down his member until it met the knotsqueezer.

John tugged on the rope around his neck and started re-writing the events of the night. In his mind the roles were switched up. Sherlock and Sarah were tied to the chairs, the [_Chuangzi Nu_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_crossbows)was pointed at Sherlock, who was stoic but releasing Omega In Danger pheromones as the sandbag slowly lowered the weight. John stopped his self-stimulation to quickly dab a drop of the ‘Omega In Danger’ pheromone bottle on his hip, figuring that was a decent distance. It worked and he could practically feel the adrenalin start pumping through his veins.

 _Save! Protect! Mount! Breed!_ Clearly there was nothing wrong with his Alpha instincts.

John’s cock was throbbing as he pulled on the rope again and pictured Zhi Zhu wrapping his scarves around him and choking him. Sherlock, being brilliant and resourceful, threw himself out of the way of the crossbow and dragged himself over to Sarah. John fought the Asian man, determined to kill him despite the fact that Sherlock was no longer in immediate danger.

_Protect! Mount! Breed!_

“Oh, god, mmmnnnn,” John took a breath and gasped out before silencing himself once more with a gentle tug on the ropes.

Now he was grappling with the man, his throbbing cock aching to find release. Finally he managed to overpower the assassin, choking him with his own scarves. Now John released his own throat, taking several frantic breathes before focusing once more on breathing the scent of Omega In Danger through his nose. Sherlock would have escaped his bonds in the mean time, and he would have freed Sarah as well.

_Mount! Breed!_

They both stood over him, powerful Alpha Domme and brilliant Omega Dom, Sherlock’s scent and both their Dominance empowering him: filling him with urgent need and justifying his actions. Alpha’s could kill legally to protect an Omega. Sherlock would be _safe_ from this man. John choked the life out of him, squeezing the handle of the cockstroker to simulate what his hands really wanted to be doing. Only when his eyes glassed over did John release him.

_Present! Breed!_

Present? His Submissive side was coming out to play now, but John had anticipated that. It was why he’d trussed himself up. How would an Alpha ‘present’, anyway? He couldn’t be buggered, could he? By an Omega instead of an Alpha? Not important now.

 _“Oh, John_ ,” fantasy Sherlock purred, “ _Look what you’ve done? You’ve gotten yourself all hot and bothered. High off my pheromone- a typical Alpha reaction, I’m afraid. Now how will we help you relieve that, hmmm?”_

Fantasy Sherlock and Fantasy Sarah dragged him back over to one of the chairs and re-set the _Chuangzi Nu_ was so it was aiming directly at his head.

 _My addiction to danger is truly frightening,_ John thought, even as he felt his knot beginning to swell.

They tied him up and located another sand bag. Now he was lashed up, with Sarah kneeling between his legs, well safe of the crossbow, and running her tongue up and down his gigantic Alpha cock. Sherlock knelt besides her, smirking superiorly and began directing her actions in his deep, sultry voice.

_“That’s it, Sarah, now squeeze his knot a bit…”_

_Breed! Breed!!!_

Suddenly the danger aspect dropped out of it. Sarah and the war machine vanished. Sherlock was riding his cock; eye’s locked with John’s, silently Dom’ing him even as he impaled himself on John’s leaking prick.

“No… wait… I… oh, god…” John whispered as his own mind took off on him. He hadn’t _meant_ for this to be sexual where Sherlock was concerned. They were flatmates! “Mmmnnnn my Dom… oh, yes, Sir, yessss. Take me in. Oh, god, more.”

John’s knot was swollen and ripe now, his body tense with the expected release, the ropes burning across his right arm and chest. The nipple clamps shooting pleasure straight to his sensitive cock. He glanced down at himself and gaped. He had to be 14 inches long, as thick around as a beer bottle with his knot even thicker, a bit above standard even for an Alpha. It was the biggest he’d ever seen himself swell to; it had to be the pheromones. He could envision Sherlock’s pink pucker, slick with Omega natural lubricant, stretched around him, then thrusting down _hard_ to take the knot in as well.

Would he cry out in pain? Yes, but it would be subdued. A gasp and a grunt, a slight widening of those pale-green eyes, he’d taken it willingly and he’d enjoy it despite not being a masochist. He _wanted_ to be bred. He wanted John to fill him full of hot seed until his belly rounded out, imitating the pregnancy that would soon follow.

_Oh, god, Sherlock round and full of babies and…_

John lessoned his use of the cockstroker, limiting it to minor stimulation of the tip. If this were real Sherlock would only be able to gyrate his hips by now, his movements stilled by the thick knot sealing his body. It would be stimulating his prostate with every move and his eyes would be rolling in the back of his head. Those full lips stretched as his mouth hung open, gasping in air, aroused and in need. Sherlock would be stroking himself, having left John tied at his mercy, to take him into his body and _own him_.

Sherlock would climax in near silence, the epitome of control. His eyes would fly open, pupils blown, lock with John’s, and he’d breath out as though he’d just solved a case.

“ _Ooooooooohhhhh,”_ Fantasy Sherlock’s breath would be hot on his face, but not nearly as hot as his come spurting across his stomach and chest.

“Ahhhh!! FUCK!”

John’s knot exploded, white, hot spurts shooting up into the air, coating his legs and chest, hitting the side of his jaw, and finally slowing to a dribble on his belly. John abandoned the cockstroker entirely and pumped up the knotsqueezer to trigger another orgasm, his body thrashing wildly against his bonds, the rope cutting into and burning his skin sending more endorphins pummeling through his brain. One more orgasm and his cock was twitching without producing more than a few dribbles of spunk.

John was lying limp against his bonds, his eyes fluttering weakly, his entire torso and spots on his legs completely coated in sticky, cooling fluid. The latter was what provoked him into reaching for the towels he’d laid aside to clean himself up, but they were just out of reach. John groaned. He wanted to stay tied up for a bit longer, basking in the afterglow, the way he would have if Sherlock were really knotted in his lap.

“Good grief, and here I thought murder,” John’s head flew up in horror and he met Sherlock’s amused eyes, “but the only death here appears to be the little one.”

“I… fuck, Sherlock, I didn’t mean to be so loud...”

“Do you need a hand? Oh, no, I see, you can get yourself out. Clever! Is this a Sub-kit? Is that part of it? I’ve never actually seen one before.” Sherlock had the box in his hand and was looking the description over with obvious curiosity. “I see you’ve modified it for your own uses. Those are Alpha toys? _Fascinating._ ”

“We really don’t have boundaries, do we? Well then, would you mind handing me those towels?”

“Certainly,” Sherlock passed them to John, who draped one across his still-turgid cock and used the other to start wiping up the mess he’d made of himself, “No use, you’re going to need at least one shower. You… you aren’t going to need any kind of _aftercare_ are you?”

John looked up and saw that Sherlock was looking disgusted for the first time since he’d entered the room.

“No. No, I’ll be fine, thanks.”

“Ah, good. Never trained in that sort of thing, but I suppose you have someone for that sort of thing anyway. Sandra, was it?”

“Sarah.”

“Right. I’ll leave you to it; I think I hear Mrs. Hudson wandering about. I’ll distract her. Might want to be a bit more quiet next time.”

“Yeah, I’ll… uh… I’ll do that. Thanks for…”

Sherlock had already swept out of the room leaving John to die of embarrassment in solitude. It wasn’t until later in the shower, after he’d scrubbed himself down a second time, that he started running what Sherlock had said through his now-functioning brain.

Sherlock had no idea what to do about aftercare? John shouldn’t be shocked; after all he’d received no Sub training so why would Sherlock receive Dom training? He’d had to figure out his safety word on his own by reading the dictionary out loud at home until his father gagged on the stench. As Alpha’s and Omega’s their first responsibility to Queen and Country was to reproduce. John had been firmly told to ignore his Submissive side, find a nice Omega Sub, pretend to Dom him/her, and make lots of babies. With only 40% of the population capable of reproducing – 25% Alpha’s, 15% Omega’s, and 60% Beta’s – the world was far more concerned with breeding. Hell, John had just experienced the urge to breed as well. It had overpowered his usual lack of interest in the male figure and urged him to have sex with Sherlock instead of Sarah in his fantasy. True, he’d mostly been with Omega Sub females, but an Alpha Domme was far more attractive to him since she could actively Dominate him; so long as she agreed to bottom, which was possible since Alpha Dom females still had functioning vaginas, despite the lack of uterus. He wouldn’t be able to knot her like he would an Omega, but…

John sighed and turned off the water. He was getting nowhere thinking himself around in circles. Sherlock was _not_ interested in him. The man didn’t seem to have a sex drive. John had seen his hormonal suppressants in the medicine cabinet and now suspected he was abusing them to cause a sort of chemical neuter. He’d heard of Omega’s doing that, though it was highly illegal. He could hardly blame them.

 

Harry had gone into heat for the first time while he’d been home from Uni. She’d been in agony, screaming and tearing at the carpet in the sitting room , ripping her own fingernails off, until John’s mother had gotten home from the market and carried Harry into her bedroom. John had been too terrified to go near her before his mother had gotten home. His father hadn't done more than turn up the volume on the telly. When John’s mother left Harry's bedroom again all John had heard was panting and a vibrating hum. He'd barely avoided vomiting all over himself.

 

“I guess Christmas is ruined,” His mother had snapped, throwing her hands up into the air in frustration.

His father had made a disgusted face and muttered about Harriet’s Christmas gift being ‘that sort’. He meant the sex toys she'd never had a use for until then. John’s mother had immediately told him off, reminding him how lucky they were to have two breeding children. It was an honor and a responsibility they wore proudly. The neighbors were pink with jealousy. John had sunk down in his seat in the couch and willed himself to disappear. He hadn’t told them about his submissive status for two more years.


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match fic Ch 3

 

 

You  have to be as fully prepared for the dull game as you are for the great game, or else you won't be prepared for the great one. – Red Barber

 

It started with their first fight.

Oh, not their first row, they were snarling at each other regularly, but John chalked that up to their crossed Genders and Dynamics. Sometimes John was a bit alphanizing to Sherlock, but it was difficult not to be when Sherlock was being such a childish, bratty Dom. Sometimes Sherlock was selfish and demanding, but that was the Dominant side, un-tempered by the Alpha need to care for their mate. Likewise, sometimes John was filled with a desperate urge to clean the flat from top to bottom in a subfrenzy, but lacked the Omega fixation on keeping useful things. Sherlock seemed to counter this with Omega nesting habits of collecting everything, and keeping them far past their use. One could imagine the arguments this started.

This, however, was a true fight in which John stormed out of the flat. Sherlock had _shot the wall_ and then told him off about his blog. Sherlock knew the blog was part of John’s therapy, John had asked his permission to use Sherlock’s name and cases in it and he had given it. Sherlock was being a massive dick, and had the nerve to give John an order that he couldn’t follow. He was just starting to enjoy his blog; it was giving him a feeling of purpose and allowing him to show his admiration for his unofficial Omega and respect for his unofficial Dom. It fed the Sub and Alpha sides all at once. Of course, Sherlock hadn’t used his Dom Voice, but John hadn’t noticed that until far, far later.

The bomb had left John feeling more dead inside than Major Denton’s death had. He’d been terrified as he rushed back to 221B to find Sherlock sitting there; strumming his violin while Mycroft sulked in John’s chair. John was glad Mycroft was there. If he hadn’t been he was fairly certain he would have grabbed Sherlock and sniffed him over to check for injuries like some fool Alpha in rut. As it was he couldn’t even respond to their goading.

Throughout the next several days Sherlock toyed with him, sending him running about for Mycroft while he played mad games with a bomber. When John lost his temper and told him off for caring more about the games than the victims Sherlock calmly reminded him that he was a sociopath.

“Don’t make people into heroes John. Heroes don’t exist and if they did I wouldn’t be one of them.”

He toyed with disobeying him when an order to help followed that statement. Sherlock had shown no inclination to punish him. However, John was nothing if not just as stubborn and he sat himself down. It was while Sherlock was fiddling with his phone and John was looking through the paper as ordered that John realized he loved this madman. He had just seen the worse of him, just been treated like a fool for days, and he still felt a thrill at obeying him the second he snapped to it.

Then he saw Sherlock’s Omega side take over for the first time, nearly overpowering rationality as the sound of a child’s voice counted down on the pink mobile’s speaker. Sherlock was sweating, frantic, babbling as he tried to find the answer under more pressure than any Omega Sub would have been able to withstand. He overcame it all. Like the brilliant supernova he pointed out in the painting, Sherlock simply outshone every preconceived notion and John panted in his wake.

Moriarty. In hindsight John should have seen it coming, but really who expects a cab to lock up and fill with gas like in the movies? Honestly, he could have thought of a less ridiculous kidnapping scheme in his sleep, but he was still just as captured, just as strapped to a bomb, and just as trapped in the sites of a sniper. He stood in the locker room entrance listening to Sherlock announce himself and wondering how the brilliant genius didn’t know the entire second level was filled with snipers. A prod in the back from his masked gunman – Omega by scent but John couldn’t have Dom’d him if he’d wanted to- and John was stepping out in his ridiculous parka.

Oh, god the betrayal on Sherlock’s face. It hurt John’s Sub side even though he knew it wasn’t real. He wondered if Moriarty would let him tell Sherlock that he wasn’t the bomber, or if they’d both go up in flames feeling this horrid tearing feeling in their chests. Then the great reveal and Sherlock looked more worried then he had when he’d thought John was Moriarty. Oh, but that nearly choked John up. To be so close and yet so far: to see actual concern on Sherlock’s face for the first time since they began their bizarre pseudo relationship.

That annoying voice, pitched to intentionally grate on the ears and then thrown back and forth into intimidation and smug teasing. Moriarty might have gotten away with it, too, had John not thrown his arms around him and caught a face full of Omega scent hiding beneath a layer of fake Beta pheromones. Now John _knew_ and it only remained to be seen if he could use that knowledge as Sherlock had taught him. Although his attempt to martyr himself to save Sherlock failed, Sherlock sniffing at him, as he demanded as to his welfare and tugged the bomb and jacket off of his body rewarded him. John’s legs went weak with relief and he leaned against the wall instead of chasing after Sherlock, but the detective came straight back and paced around John possessively, stammering a nervous praise for his behavior.

“That uh… thing that you did, that you offered to do… that was, um… good.”

_I’m dreaming this. He doesn’t care enough. He can’t._

He answered it with a joke instead, playing on how people always thought they were lovers. Sherlock’s smile seemed so much more genuine than John had ever seen before.

Then that fickle _wanker_ had come back and Sherlock had leveled the gun at the bundle of symtech on the floor of the pool, and while John was perfectly ready to die _for_ Sherlock, he wasn’t ready to die _with_ Sherlock.

“Omega!” John hissed from the floor just as Sherlock glanced at him as though in farewell, and jerked his head towards the madman.

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised and John saw him gathering himself, focusing, drawing on a strength that had been burned into human genetics for centuries. John was closer to Sherlock than Moriarty was, so he caught the moment Sherlock’s scent changed from “Omega” to something pulsating and powerful as Sherlock’s Dominant side overwhelmed his Omega gender.

“If you don’t want your men to know what you are, I strongly suggest you **call them off**.”

It was spoken so softly, but Sherlock’s Dom Voice made John glad he was already on the floor. He was instantly hard and aching, the urge to rip off his clothes and show Sherlock just how big and hard his Alpha cock could get was driving him mad.

John was panting for it, and so was Moriarty, who’s hands flew to his trousers in a sudden need to present his arse for Sherlock’s use. The man didn’t drop to his knees. He didn’t remove his clothes. He did stare at Sherlock with a mixture of fear and loathing that only made his previous words echo in John’s mind.

_“I will burn the heart out of you.”_

Then Moriarty’s mobile went off, and John saw them engage in what had to be the most advanced non-verbal conversation he’d ever seen. Both of them simply… relaxed. Sherlock had the air about him of a Dom who’s just been obeyed: proud, confident, and satisfied. Moriarty transferred his rage at Sherlock onto the person on the other line, screaming threats and slowly but ostensibly storming from the room.

“Sherlock. What. Just. Happened?”

“He got a better offer.”

It took John another few minutes, after the red dots had vanished and he’d taken several deep breaths, to realize that they’d come to a compromise. Most likely Moriarty would rather have gone up in smoke then let his men know they were following an Omega Sub. Sherlock wasn’t going to stand for that and would have ordered Moriarty to kneel, revealing his gender and dynamic to men with very large guns. So instead he beat a tactical retreat, using the phone call as an excuse.

[CHAPTER FOUR](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/58630.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match fic Ch 4

Vatican Cameos

A/N I am reading the books by Sir ACD while I write this, so please forgive me if I suddenly drop into first person. I keep losing the tone, too, so pardon that. In this chapter I was trying to explain Sherlock’s mysterious shout of “Vatican cameos” during Scandal in Belgravia. I googled it to neurotic proportions only to find out that even the original books have only a vague mention of it (sites listed at end of chapter). So I thought up an excuse and here it is. I did lots of research, but I’m sure my Italian is atrocious and my study habits only slightly less so. Do tell me if I need to correct anything.

 

It was during the case of the Vatican Cameos that John discovered that Sherlock hated his Omega side with an even greater passion than John hated his Submissive side.

They had been waylaid by Mycroft on the way to a crime scene and told that it was of great importance- not just to Great Britain, but also to the entire world- that Sherlock and John leave immediately for Italy. They were handed pre-packed bags, which left John snarling that neither Holmes men had any regard to his privacy, and were stuffed into a private jet without further ado.

It wasn’t until John looked out of the planes window and saw the giant keyhole shaped cityscape below them that he realized where they were headed.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, you think there’s been a murder at The Holy See?”

“Quit crossing yourself, John, it will be exceedingly embarrassing if you keep that up in public.”

“For pity’s sake, Sherlock you… never mind!”

John had gotten more used to their hot and cold relationship. In the weeks since The Pool Incident Sherlock had been more open with him, more affectionate, more tactile even, but in no way more physically involved. While John had left The Pool wanting for physical intimacy, Sherlock had left it wanting time with his violin. So John had sat, brandy in hand, and watched the great detective sway in front of the boarded up windows with music so sweet and alluring flowing from his instrument that John slept peacefully, right where he sat, and dreamed of gentle hands caressing his face and wrapping him tight in the comfort of a throw.

It was an illusion, of course. When John awoke Sherlock had neither tucked him in nor ceased playing. He had pulled himself from the chair, cleaned up the spilled brandy, and climbed the stairs to his room without bothering to interrupt his stoic friend with a goodnight. Their relationship was just that, vibrant and passionate as violin music, but just as sad and lonesome as well. A friendship that was so close as to be unrequited love; though John firmly believed the feelings were mutual.

Since that night they had solved no less than five cases, and each time John spent it following Sherlock around with a deep sense of satisfaction and completeness. He could live with this; this partial relationship in which his Submissive needs were met while his Alpha needs were occasionally coddled but otherwise largly ignored. Sometimes Sherlock would let him convince him to eat a bit during a case, which was soothing to his Alpha, but other than that they remained impeccably separated by the unspoken rigors of the English code of etiquette regarding mixed gender friendships; their clothes were a permanent barrier that couldn’t be crossed by the staunchest of miners.

The case was revealed to them after they were checked into – of all places! – Hotel Columbus itself.

“I should have brought a camera,” John muttered as they were led to a Hotel Suite that featured it’s own meeting room.

“Do shut up,” Sherlock snipped under his breath. John ignored it; Sherlock was just sore from being pushed around by Mycroft.

“Mr. Holmes?” The impeccably dressed poliziotto offered his hand to John, who sidestepped it in a practiced move so Sherlock could snatch it up quite forcefully.

“Yes, how do you do, where’s the body?”

“Bodies, I’m afraid, Signore.”

In a whirlwind of beautiful stone buildings and flashy cars they found themselves at a private school some blocks away. John saw Sherlock tense as they entered, his eyes straying over to the walled in area full of children’s outdoor play sets and toys, and remembered his tension upon hearing the child counting down on the phone. It was no small thing for an Omega to be around children. They were often utilized in childcare facilities like this one, but only those past breeding age as a younger Omega would be frantic to take the children home and mother them there. The school would be primarily run by Betas, with only a few Omega elders available to comfort the children when their instincts demanded an Omega do so; usually after an injury, scare, or if they fell ill.

John felt a bit sick himself. He’d wanted children for as long as he could remember, something that seemed to be unlinked to either Alpha or Submissive tendencies, though a submissive generally cared for the children in a household - even Beta adoptions worked that way.

“Don’t worry, Investigatore, all the children have been sent home,” the poliziotto almost hid his sneer beneath his thick moustache, but Sherlock and John saw it clearly.

“I’m not worried, signore, just curious. I have a vested interest in solving this quickly so I can get home to British cases.”

“I assure you, Investigatore Privato, this will have a profound interest in Great Britain. Here we are.”

They walked into a classroom, which was as average as could be with the exception of the large amount of blood spread across one wall and the surrounding furniture. John took a deep breath through his mouth to stop himself from being sick. Beside him, Sherlock was doing the same.

“No children harmed,” the poliziotto informed them, far too late for someone who was actually trying to be helpful.

John leveled him with a glare and started pulling on the coverings for his feet. Sherlock joined him for once. The floor was coated in blood, and some of it looked like it was still tacky.

“We need to know how they were killed, who killed them, and where they took the artifacts they stole,” the poliziotto explained coldly.

“How many victims?” John asked, “and we’ll need to see the crime scene photo’s since you’ve already altered the scene.”

The poliziotto was at least helpful in that regard, and John looked over the forensic reports with his help translating the written parts from Italian to English.

“So,” John stated, joining Sherlock who was slowly combing the room over with his magnifier, “six adults were standing in the front of the classroom when they were suddenly shot. All perfect head shots, all at once, all without hitting a single child in a room full of kids.”

“According to the children, who he’s pointed out several times were traumatized by the whole event,” Sherlock stated.

“Yes, and it was during play hour, so the children were moving around the room. More than one shooter?”

“No,” Sherlock held up the panorama shot of the victims and John nodded. The spread indicated all the shots came from one spot. It also seemed to be coming from _inside_ the room.

“One shooter. How could one shooter shoot that quickly and with that much accuracy?”

“That is the question, my dear Dr. Watson.” Sherlock grinned from ear to ear. He was excited now.

“You’ve already solved it, haven’t you?” John sighed.

“Not quite,” Sherlock replied to the frustration of the poliziotti, “we’re going to need to find the device that was used to shoot them.”

“Not a typical gun, then.” John stated, cringing when he realized he was being obvious again.

“No, John, not a typical gun at all,” Sherlock announced, waving his hands about in typical manic Sherlockian excitement, “Machine precision. We are searching for a weapon attached to a computer that has a kind of facial recognition software, which is both small enough and inconspicuous enough to bring into a classroom full of children without raising suspicion until after it has been fired.”

The room felt like it dropped several degrees. The poliziotto was a rather shocking shade of puce and his clenched fists were trembling. John felt his stomach bottom out. One simply did _not_ talk about endangering children that way, especially not an Omega.

“Oh,” Sherlock stated before leaning closer to John, “bit not good?”

“Yeah, bit not good, Sherlock.”

“Well, it’s a horrible thing, obviously, we’ll have to make sure and find it quickly.” Sherlock attempted to recover, but the damage was soundly done.

Over the next two weeks they struggled to find clues only to be routed left and right by the Italian government, military, and police. Eventually Sherlock discovered the Vatican was far more involved than had originally been implied, which was no shock considering the location. Sherlock made multiple attempts to contact the individuals he needed to question only to be informed they were too busy.

“Damn it all, why are we even _here_?”

John sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back in the plush chair and rubbing his face. He knew why they were being blocked on all sides, and the problem was two fold. One was similar to military protocol: they were outsiders and not in the chain of command. The other was due to Sherlock’s comments. With only 40% of the population capable of breeding, children were considered the most important commodity on the planet. You could murder an adult and get away with a life term with parole, but if you killed or even abused a child the likelihood of you receiving a death penalty was drastically higher. Sherlock’s careless comments, from an Omega who should have been instinctively horrified by the situation, had spread like wildfire. John had already refused to answer multiple reporters who demanded to know if he was chemically neutered.

“Sherlock… maybe if you made a statement to the press.”

“The media are a pointless exercise. Their singular goal in life is to spread gossip to a larger radius than most Omega’s are capable of reaching with their frantically waggling tongues.”

John took a moment to visualize frantically waggling Omega tongues before pulling himself back on task.

“What about Lestrade, then? He always functioned as liaison for you with the NSC. Perhaps he can help here?”

“And let them think I need a _handler_?”

John studied Sherlock’s demeanor and nodded his understanding, which lead to Sherlock visibly relaxing. So. This was about being an Omega, more so than it was about Sherlock’s anti-social personality disorder- or whatever his mental ailment was. Italy was by no means less forward thinking than England was, but this was a case concerning children. To John’s knowledge Sherlock had never handled a case where children had been at extreme risk outside of that one terrifying phone call during The Great Game. Omegas were supposed to be surrounded by, preoccupied about, and obsessed with creating children. All Omegas had a limit of sorts, but until they hit that limit they would have children in rapid-fire succession as soon as they found themselves a bond mate. It was rare for an Omega to hit 30 without starting this process; Sherlock was in his mid thirties. This, in conjunction with Sherlock’s frivolous behavior at the crime scene, had made everyone around him uncomfortable. People talked- they did little else, as Sherlock would say- so it was only a matter of time before the entire police and military force that had been brought in were uncomfortable around him. 

“Phone Lestrade,” Sherlock said with a sigh as he threw himself dramatically down in a chair and went boneless.

“Yeah, sure.”

Lestrade arrived just in time for another school to be shot up, but this time it was a posh private preschool.

“No children were hurt,” John stated as he hung up his phone. The poliziotti refused to call Sherlock, forcing John to be their go-between, “They’re asking us to show up as soon as possible. They aren’t moving the bodies until we do, but they had to evacuate the children, of course.”

“Yes, well, they’d just be in the way,” Sherlock fiddled with his scarf nervously and John saw Lestrade looking decidedly confused by his behavior. John gave him a headshake to let him know he’d tell him later.

As far as John knew Lestrade was a sort of pack Alpha to Sherlock. It was normal for Omega’s to have entire packs, sometimes several, surrounding them at all times. These were support networks, though more often it was for their Submissive side, and they functioned to protect the Omega when their mate was unavailable or before they located one. They almost always consisted of a large number of Beta’s who functioned as babysitters, as well as someone the Omega could go to when they were sick of being pushed about all day. Since Sherlock was not a submissive he refused to acknowledge Lestrade’s position in his life, and Lestrade largely allowed that; but occasionally he threw his weight around and got Sherlock to behave when needed, or protected him from the kind of bureaucracy they’d been facing up till now. He did so now, getting the number from John and laying into the poor sod that answered.

Lestrade paced the little hotel room screaming into the phone, cock hard with Alpha presentation despite the lack of witnesses. Sherlock had expressed amusement on numerous occasions about the Alpha tendency to strut and show off the size of their genitals whenever faced with a problem.

_“It’s an outdated instinct,”_ Sherlock had explained to John some weeks ago _, “Most Alpha’s are also Dominants, and the ability to out-Dom other Doms is far more convincing than who has the bigger prick. If a situation doesn’t warrant using Dom Voice on the Subs or Doms present, than it also doesn’t warrant having a pissing contest. Intelligent debate is far more likely to get results then strutting about with a raging hard-on in your trousers; not to mention the blood being re-directed to one’s midsection is quite the impediment on the higher functions of the brain in general.”_

Sherlock and John shared an amused glance with each other and John had one of those lovely moments where they were both on the same page, recalling the same conversation, and silently laughing together.

“Right,” Lestrade hung up the phone and faced them, his erection wilting quickly once the confrontation was over, “They are properly cowed, now. You’re welcome. Where’s some god damn coffee? Mycroft pulled me out of bed at three in the fuckin’ morning.”

“Well,” Sherlock mused, “that explains your enthusiasm.”

“Don’t make me subdue you,” Lestrade snarled, and Sherlock gave him a startled look, “Sorry, just short tempered. This isn’t exactly my idea of a holiday.”

John sighed, resisted the urge to step in between them, and mentioned the café in the Hotel’s lobby. They all headed down in relative quiet. John was surprised Lestrade had mentioned subduing* Sherlock; to his knowledge it had never happened since neither of them had ever acknowledged Lestrade’s pack Alpha status. Did that mean there was a problem John wasn’t picking up on?

John studied Sherlock from the back of the pantera, as the Italian police cars were called. He was definitely very pale, more so than usual. John mentally tallied the amount of hours since the last time he’d seen Sherlock sleep or eat. It was a pretty large number and stretched back to London. John was sometimes able to talk Sherlock into eating and at least sitting down to relax for a bit, but he had been extremely high strung since they had arrived in Italy. Every time he was offered food Sherlock snarled that he would sick it back up. John had hesitantly asked if he was going on Heat**, but he’d only been given a scathing look in reply.

“Question for you guys,” Lestrade hissed, pulling them aside before they headed in, “If the Vatican is involved, and this stuff is going on at schools, do you think…?”

John cast a nervous look Sherlock’s way, but he was shaking his head at the hanging question.

“The children aren’t involved in any way. The schools are being used to hide something, but what that something is I have no idea. They’ve kept me too far in the dark. I know it’s something that was stolen from the Vatican, but I can’t even get a vague description, let alone access to the primary scene of the theft _inside_ the Vatican.”

“They’re really messing with you, aren’t they?” Lestrade asked, looking surprised, “Why are you even here?”

“Why, indeed.”

“Fine. Let’s go. We’ll see if we can get you some more cooperation now that I’m here,” Lestrade squared his shoulders and stomped in, full of Alpha pomp.

They headed into a large indoor play area that was liberally coated with blood. This time there were two areas where several victims had been shot, but that wasn’t the most shocking part of the scene. The shocking parts were twofold: there were no less than six dead poliziotti amongst the civilians and one screaming, blood-covered toddler.

John stepped instinctively in front of Sherlock and glanced over his shoulder at his shocked companion before returning his gaze to the child.

“You are doctor?” one of the poliziotto asked in broken English, “Autoambulanza not come. You help.”

A glance over his shoulder showed a tightlipped Sherlock giving him an urgent nod. The child’s cries were probably as upsetting to Sherlock’s Omega side as the sight was. John headed over to the child to assess the damage, but could barely get near her. She was clutching the arm of a dead male Omega with the same hair color – her mother, no doubt – and was kicking out at anyone who came near. The nearby corpse of an older female Omega in the room explained why he was getting no help from the schools resident Omega caretaker.

“I can’t treat her while she’s hysterical,” John shouted over the child’s frightened keening. She was making classic Infant Distress sounds now, probably because she could smell Sherlock, “We need an Omega to…”

Movement at his side revealed Sherlock dropping to his knees and scooping the child into his arms, she flailed for a moment before going limp against him, nuzzling her face into his chest for comfort. She was breathing in his scent as though it were oxygen. It was probably a very bad move for Sherlock, but really it was the only solution. The girl was covered in evidence and they’d need to get her clothes from her as well as treat her.

“Let the nice Doctor take a look at you now, sweetheart,” Sherlock murmured softly.

John tried very hard not to go feral. His Alpha instincts had just slammed into his chest with the force of a bullet – and he was able to compare the two quite easily. ‘His Omega’ was holding a child and they both smelled distressed. His first instinct was to grab them both and drag them away from all of these strange Alphas to someplace safe. Then scent them thoroughly before going hunting for food and nesting material. Utterly useless reaction for this situation, but it was instinctive. John took a moment to take several deep breaths with his arm thrown over his face, taking in his own scent and grounding himself. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder and glanced up to see Lestrade, looking drawn but in control. John shamelessly leaned over and breathed in his scent as well, pressing his nose into the Alpha Dom’s thigh. A slight pressure at the back of his head acknowledged and justified his need.

“Right, let me see you, darling, there’s a good girl,” John talked to her the entire time he examined her and she stared into his eyes with innocent trust from the safety of Sherlock’s lap.

She was completely unharmed, and between John and Sherlock her blood-soaked clothes were stripped and a warm blanket wrapped around her. Sherlock swaddled her, though she was far too old for swaddling, and rocked her gently from his spot on the floor. He refused to meet anyone’s eyes, there was a spot of color high up on each of his cheekbones, and he was making a soft purring noise deep in his chest. The child fell asleep almost immediately.

The ambulance finally arrived and brought an Omega social worker with it. She didn’t speak any English, but her words as she carefully took the child from Sherlock’s arms were spoken in a tone that required no translation. Sherlock met her eyes, the first person he did so with in nearly an hour, and they stared at each other in silence for nearly a minute. She gave Sherlock an almost loving look, caressed his cheek, than hurried from the room with the sleeping child tucked tightly against herself. The ambulance driver gave Sherlock a pitying look and asked a question of the nearby poliziotti.

“He wants to know if your Omega needs medicines for subdrop?” the poliziotto asked.

“He’s not a Sub, he…”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted, “Bathroom. Now.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and hauled him to his feet and out the door. They skidded around a corner, following a sign, and Sherlock practically threw himself into the nearest toilet. John stood at the door, guarding it instinctively, as Sherlock threw up the coffee he’d had on the way to the scene. Young, unbred Omegas didn’t handle other people’s children for a reason. If Sherlock were an Omega Sub he might have gone into subdrop, requiring a dopamine shot to stabilize him, but John knew from med school that it wasn’t possible for a Dom to go through that, even if they were an Omega. Could he go through topdrop? Topdrop was a completely different set of feelings, but it was a possibility.

“The answer to your question is, no.” Sherlock informed him, staggering to the sink and splashing water on his face. “A drink?”

John didn’t ask how Sherlock knew what he was thinking. He simply headed out to the group and asked if anyone had something Sherlock could drink. They directed him to a vending machine and he picked some apple juice, figuring it would settle well. Sherlock was already at the crime scene again and running over everything he’d deduced so far.

“The same machine killed both groups of people, seemingly within seconds of each other as it doesn’t appear that either group had enough time to start running.”

“One machine?” Lestrade asked.

“One machine,” Sherlock agreed, “That snuck its way past a group of poliziotti who, if I am not incorrect, were expecting its owner to appear here. Which means you all suspected this event would occur today but decided once more to keep me in the dark. When you are ready to work with me as an equal, you know where to find me.”

Sherlock snatched the juice from John’s hand and marched out the door without looking back. He didn’t get far. He had just taken a few small sips from the juice when one of the poliziotto ran out the door after him.

“Signore, wait! Your Alpha said you are not a Sub?”

Sherlock turned and gave him a withering gaze. “His name is John, and I don’t have an Alpha. Not in the sense you mean. John is my blogger and my colleague.”

The man opened his mouth, seemed to consider what to say, glanced at John as though for permission, and asked if Sherlock would speak to him in Italian.

“Certamente,” Sherlock replied, and John prepared to read faces instead of listen for the duration of the conversation: A conversation that descended into a screaming match very rapidly.

John stood on the periphery, trying to figure out if and when he should step in. He and the other Alpha were both hard, and it didn’t seem as funny as it had in the Hotel when it had been Lestrade. Now it was adding to the level of tension he felt and making him want to attack the other Alpha as not nearly enough blood tried to make it’s way through restricted blood vessels. Lestrade was arguing with the rest of the poliziotti, so John would get no help from that quarter. He was just about to step in and separate the Alpha and the Omega, when Sherlock’s expression changed dramatically. He suddenly looked bewildered and he swayed slightly on his feet.

“John?” Sherlock asked, giving him a lost look as all the blood drained from his face.

John caught him before he hit the ground and lowered him gently to the floor. Military medic instincts kicked in and he tugged off his sweater, completely ignoring his surroundings as he folded it and stuffed it under Sherlock’s head. Pulse – elevated. Pupils – unfocused. Breathe – slow and uneven. Sherlock was well and truly under and wouldn’t be waking up on his own. Shame he hadn’t drunk all the juice, it just might have postponed or halted this. John dumped the medical kit, which he kept slung beneath his outer layer of clothes, rather than sort through it and started snatching up what he needed. He pricked Sherlock’s finger to test his blood sugar levels; he had just one dose of insulin with him, but so far he had never had to administer it to Sherlock. His sugar levels were low, but not dangerously so. It was probably a combination of dehydration, shock from holding a child, and suspended low caloric intake. He grabbed a syringe, filled it with saline solution, and slowly eased it into Sherlock’s barely-there vein. Definitely dehydrated. Man could not live on coffee and tea alone, no matter how stiff his upper lip was.

Sherlock hissed in discomfort from the cold rush of fluids, eyelids fluttering, but did not wake. John checked his pulse again, this time for a suspended period of time.

“John, I called off the ambulance they wanted to call,” Lestrade’s soft voice pulled John out of the mental bubble he’d placed himself in. Maybe Lestrade was his pack Alpha, too.

“Thanks.”

“You need anything?”

“Bottle of water.”

“Anthing else?”

“Them to quit fucking with us.”

“On that. On both of them.”

Lestrade vanished from the area John’s Alpha instincts were watching while he focused his mind and body on Sherlock. He cracked some old fashioned smelling salts and brought Sherlock around. He gave John the same disgusted look he’d given him last time this had happened and didn’t bother trying to rise.

“Crackers,” John stated, pressing the open pack from the kit into Sherlock’s hand.

The juice had been sealed, so John retrieved that as well and pressed it on him. He levered Sherlock up, moving behind him so that Sherlock could lean against his shoulder.

“I thought you were annoyed by my treating you like sentient furniture,” Sherlock teased softly as he obediently ate and drank.

“Yes, well, just this once, but don’t get used to it. I’m not your sofa, you know,” Sherlock smiled weakly at John’s joke.

Lestrade reappeared and placed a bottle of water on the floor by Sherlock. One of the poliziotto tried to enter the area John’s Alpha had mentally cordoned off and both John and Lestrade growled. Sherlock sighed in frustration as the man retreated again.

“Do you mind? You’re poking me in the back and it’s quite uncomfortable.” Sherlock snipped.

“That’s not what the last Omega who leaned against me said,” John quipped.

“Of course not, John, she was inflatable. She can hardly comment besides making rude noises as you let the air out of her.”

John and Lestrade exchanged looks of scandalized amusement before cracking up laughing. Sherlock grinned smugly and started on the water. His teasing had done its work. John’s member was flaccid once more and the poliziotto were inching closer with questions in their eyes.

“No food, drink, or sleep since you arrived? You are that concerned?” One of them asked.

“He drank tea and coffee, but no, he had no food or sleep,” John answered for Sherlock, who was likely to cause an international war with his response, “When he is on a case he is completely focused on it; to the detriment of his health, I’m afraid, and you lot haven’t exactly made it easy for us.”

Sherlock grabbed the emergency rations bar from the pile of medical flotsam without having to be forced into it.

“Pity this stuff only comes in ash flavor,” he groused.

“Says you, that’s the good stuff. That’s chocolate,” John replied.

“I shudder at the thought of what you might consider to be poor tasting,” Sherlock chewed for a good five minutes before being able to get the first bite down. It was enough time for the poliziotti to finish an argument between themselves and someone on a cell phone. Then they all headed over with very serious faces and no small amount of reservation.

“We have new orders. We will take you to see the Pope, now.”

XXXXXX

John sat in the blindingly wealthy looking office in a rented suit and tried not to fidget.

“The bloody Pope,” Lestrade said from beside him, his voice dazed.

“Will you stop saying that?” John hissed.

“Sorry, it’s just… the bloody _Pope_.”

“Why is Sherlock taking so long? What could they be talking about that you and I couldn’t hear?”

“Maybe it turns out Sherlock was right, and he _is_ some kind of god. Pope might be fitting him for robes so they can all commence worshiping his Great Detectiveness.”

“Very funny.”

“He was an Omega, and an old one, it’s not like they could be getting up to much. He’s probably trying to convert Sherlock. No need to be jealous.”

“I’m not. I doubt…” John stopped talking as the antechamber door opened once more and Sherlock re-emerged with the Pope not far behind him. Both John and Lestrade stood automatically, Lestrade’s hat still tightly clenched in his hand. John gaped at the look of peaceful happiness on Sherlock’s face.

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade swore, “they _did_ convert you!”

“Greg!” John gasped in horror, “Language!”

“Oops, humblest apologies Your Grace.”

The Pope chuckled and sat himself back down behind his desk, shaking his head in apparent amusement.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Greg,” Sherlock smirked, “but I’m afraid I’m still very much convinced in the divinity of science,” Sherlock turned back to the Pope and held his hand out to him, “I do hope we’ll speak again before I leave Italy, Your Grace, and you have my e-mail and cell. Don’t hesitate to use them.”

“You take good care of this man, John,” the Pope stated, clasping Sherlock’s hand with both of his and leveling John with a twinkling stare, “He is very important man.”

“Yes, sir. Yes he is,” John answered without thinking. Then it clicked.

_Oh my god, the Pope is an Omega Dominant!_

“Have you ever met another one before?” John whispered as the Vatican’s personal guards led them out.

“Nope,” Sherlock beamed.

It took less than an hour to wrap the case up. The Vatican Cameos, which had been stolen directly from the Basilica Vaticana, had been being smuggled from one school to another while the owner of said schools tried to find a way out of the country. Apparently there had been a total of four school shootings while they had been in Rome, but the poliziotti had hidden two of them. The device, when found, turned out to be a tiny machine gun mounted behind a false camera front. It stood on a tripod and used facial recognition software to find any heads in the room and shoot a bullet clear through the center of them. With no moving parts beside the rotating stand, the innocent looking weapon could lay down a million-plus round per minute. The bullets were hidden in the black cloth that hung down where a cameraman would have stood. The soprintendente of the school simply showed up, announced that it was picture day, had his son position the weapon, and programmed it to hit only people above five feet tall. At least he hadn’t intended to, or actually, harmed any children.

Sherlock slept with his head on John’s thigh the entire flight back and had to be taken to the nearest hospital in a stretcher once he arrived. He was sent home with sedatives after being given two bags of Saline and a drinkable liquid nutrition solution. John was ordered to make sure he drank nutrition shakes on a daily basis, along with his three squares a day. It would be quite the battle once they got back to 221B, but John squared his shoulders and accepted his duties without complaint. To live in the shadow of such genius was to suffer with them, after all.

Cut scenes from chapter 4:

*Subduing was something only pack Alpha’s did; usually it was when a lesser Alpha or a Sub was being unruly. They were then clutched tightly to the Alpha’s chest from behind and their neck was sucked on, creating a hickey and reminding the lower member of the pack who they belonged to. Sometimes the Alpha would grind their erection into the others backside, just to make sure they knew who was more Alpha. Though not sexual, it was a mutually satisfying experience for the both of them; pack leaders would feel empowered and lower Alphas and Subs would feel safe.

**Omegas’ only drink fluids for the entire five-day span called estrus; two days of prep as their bodies dropped eggs and their cervixes open, followed by three days of near-constant sex. This was probably why Sherlock could go as long as he did without food or sleep, though he played it off as though it were some superhuman feat. It wasn’t, and eventually it would catch up with him. Sherlock had collapsed once so far since John had become his flatmate. From that day on John had kept his smaller military medical kit with him at all times, re-stocked with specific things he thought Sherlock would need. It was tucked beneath his outer layer of clothes so that he could run unimpeded. One did a great deal of running around Sherlock Holmes.

***Children were to be protected at all costs; especially in a society that was as blatantly sexual as the Omegarace was. Not only were Alpha’s prone to spontaneous errections, Omega’s started their heat cycles around 20 years of age and experienced them every six months thereafter. While heat cycles were usually predictable; at any point in time an Omega could be triggered into an unexpected heat, usually brought on by extreme stress, but occasionally triggered by meeting their Perfect Match. An Omega in heat would drop to all fours, expose their bottoms, and keen loudly until they were mounted and satisfied. This was the reason all cars had tinted windows, most bachelors were in bachelor areas like Baker St, and all children were kept indoors for most of their childhoods with the exception of parks surrounded by very large walls. Larger households even separated the pubescent children from the pre-pubescent children by segregating which story they slept on. John’s cousins had all lived that way; the older children were on the second story across from their parents bedroom, while those under 12 lived in the finished basement. Schools were surrounded by gates and had guards. Preschools and daycares were also gated in and had security clearance that made MI5 look pedestrian.

[ http://www.popularmechanics.com/technology/military/1281426 ](http://www.popularmechanics.com/technology/military/1281426)

<http://bakerstreet.wikia.com/wiki/Vatican_Cameos>

[ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Law_enforcement_in_Italy ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Law_enforcement_in_Italy)

[ http://www.vatican.va/phome_en.htm ](http://www.vatican.va/phome_en.htm)

[CHAPTER FIVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/58965.html)

  



	5. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match fic Ch 5

A/N 1) This is the _last_ canon chapter. I’m going mad waiting for something new to happen and I’m sure you all are too. I’ve managed to tie this in so “Hounds of Baskerville” and “The Fall of Reichenbach” speak for themselves. Love the bromance in those two, but I’m not writing them up. 2) For those of you wondering, The Pope was pretty much Italian Mycroft in the last chapter. He just told the police what to do, not the other way around.

Sometimes Sherlock was so completely and utterly clueless that it was cruel. The morning of Scandal in Belgravia was one of those times. 

The smell hit John long before Sherlock spoke to him.

_ Omega aroused!! _

John took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and would have moaned had Sherlock not startled him.

“John, I require medical assistance.”

John was standing in front of him, sniffing and looking for injuries before he registered the thought. 

“You don’t… you’re not…”

“Not _that_ kind of medical assistance,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “This thrice damned thing _broke_.” 

John stared down at the plastic phallus for several minutes before what Sherlock was saying hit his brain. He blamed it on the lack of blood flow above his midsection. Sherlock was wrapped in only a sheet and his erection, while far smaller than an Alpha’s, was obvious and twitching with need. He was dripping sweat and looking beyond frustrated.

“You want me to…” John hesitantly asked.

“Help me achieve orgasm, yes. Do try to keep up.” 

To John’s credit, he did _not_ do a jig in the middle of the sittingroom. He did, however, cock his head to the side to try and catch the first notes of cheesy porno music. When they weren’t forthcoming he decided he was in fact awake and had better make _damn sure_ Sherlock meant what he thought. Sherlock, as usual, read his thoughts on his face.

“I know it’s terribly unorthodox, even if you are my personal doctor…”

“I’m your personal doctor?”

“…But I tried fisting myself and the logistics are simply impossible. With the amount of contact I have with breeding age Alpha’s it’s impossible to keep a heat at bay, even with suppressants, without occasionally bringing myself to orgasm a few times. I’m in a bit of a spot, because if I put this off any longer I _will_ go into heat, and I don’t think either of us wants that.”

“You want me to…”

“Fist me, yes. A basic medical practice for unbonded Omega’s.”

Sherlock’s disgusted face would have been comical if his words hadn’t just kicked John in the testicles. His Alpha and Submissive were having a hell of a nasty battle at the moment.

“ _My Omega wants me to pleasure him!! Weeeeeee!!!!!!”_ John’s Submissive crowed.

“ _Little slut! Quick, bend him over and rip off that sheet! I’ll show you what a_ real _knot feels like! Then we’ll see if your stupid toys ever get replaced!!”_ John’s Alpha ranted.

_ “I’m not just sentient furniture, now I’m a medical grade sex toy. Do I at least get off at some point? _ ” John’s actual brain chimed in.

“John,” Sherlock stated, looking slightly uncomfortable, “If you are unable to be objective about this, I’m sure I could get Lestrade to…”

“No! I… I mean… no need to involve Lestrade. I’m a doctor, he’s not, and I can be professional about this. Did I mention he’s _not_ a doctor?”

Sherlock smirked, “I was referring to the fact he has his own car and could drive me to the A&E. They’ve assisted me before. Are you _certain_ this isn’t asking too much? You’re always going on about boundaries and personal space...”

“No, this is fine. It’s… all fine.”

“Fantastic. My room? Or the table?”

“You’ve an experiment on the table. You’ve an experiment on _all_ the tables.”

“Right. Bedroom, then.”

John followed Sherlock, casually adjusting himself in his trousers, and tried to remember if he still had a pheromone mask in his medical kit. Sherlock dropped the sheet the moment they got into the room and scrambled onto the bed, on hands and knees, with his legs slightly spread. 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk. I’m likely to loose my temper if you attempt to Dom me.” 

“Of course.” John wondered at the Dom statement. Surely Sherlock knew he was a Sub? Hadn’t it been obvious at the pool? Of course, Sherlock was powerful enough to Dom Voice most Dom’s so perhaps not.

_ Well, that will just be my little dirty secret then, won’t it? It’s about time I had something on Sherlock effing Holmes. _

John took a deep breath through his mouth and studied Sherlock’s displayed entrance. He began to rub his hands together to warm them up.

“Gloves?” John asked, not sure he had the elbow length ones on hand.

“Don’t bother. They chafe terribly. That’s the advantage of _not_ going to the A &E. I’m clean, by the way.”

“Yes, you did mention having your own personal doctor,” John chuckled.

“You’re _talking_.” 

“Sorry, it’s just… Safe Word?”

Sherlock gave him a scathing look over his shoulder and John muttered an apology. 

Sherlock’s entrance was pink and swollen, leaking clear natural lubricant copiously as it pulsated with desire. It was probably worse now that John was in the room, as most unbonded Omega’s responded automatically to unbonded Alpha’s by producing at least a bit of lubricant. John had seen the lube-pads in the bathroom, so he knew Sherlock wasn’t immune to this, but this was the first real indication he had that Sherlock wasn’t chemically neutered. 

John bit back a moan as he pressed his first two fingers inside, the muscles were already stretched and he was practically sucked into the most exquisite wet heat. He immediately pulled out and shifted in three instead. Well… four then…

“Oh, get _on_ with it!”

John withdrew his fingers and pressed his entire hand in, pumping it quickly as he twisted his wrist until he located Sherlock’s prostate, which didn’t take long with John’s background. Sherlock moaned deeply and John mentally thanked his medical degree.

“Say when,” John urged, thinking of how he preferred to prolong his rise to climax.

“ _When_ , damn you!”

John carefully but quickly clenched his hand into a fist and made small motions against Sherlock’s prostate. 

_ “Fuck!”  _ Sherlock came hard, his channel clenching beautifully as he fucked himself eagerly on John’s fist.

John bit back a reply. He was truly struggling to maintain any kind of professional decorum. His Submissive side was singing in bliss, but his Alpha was screaming in rage, while John himself was just wallowing in self-pity. 

_ He’s coming! Siiiigh! _

_ Mount! Breed!! _

_ I’ve never hated myself more than I do now. _

“Again!” Sherlock ordered, and John immediately pressed against his prostate and rubbed vigorously. “Oh, yeessss!”

There was a moment of calm, then, as Sherlock panted and trembled after his second orgasm, and John did his best not to rip his fist out and pound into Sherlock with his _real_ knot, which was already fully expanded despite the lack of friction in his loose (usually loose) Alpha trousers. 

“Once more, if you don’t mind?” Sherlock asked, far too composed for a man with a fist up his bum. 

John’s Alpha and Submissive sides gave each other evil grins and John simply followed their lead like a confused lemming.

Sherlock spent the next twenty minutes screaming and swearing on the top of his lungs as John pulled orgasm after orgasm out of the man. He wasn’t even ejaculating anymore, just spasming in bliss, and his head and shoulders had collapsed onto the bedspread, too weak with pleasure to hold him up. John didn’t stop until one of the words Sherlock screamed was his own name. John doubted Sherlock knew he’d yelled for him, and he had no intention of mentioning it, he simply unclenched his hand and slipped it out of the sopping wet hole. He watched with no small amount of satisfaction as Sherlock’s body instantly clenched to keep in the fluids that should have been inside of his body. 

“Well, I’ll just leave you to get cleaned up. You’ll let me know if that wasn’t enough, yes? Doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock’s only response was a rather loud snore. John tapped his hip and he toppled sideways without ever waking up. John noted with some amusement that his face had ended up smeared in his own spunk. 

_ Serves you right, you wanker. _

John headed for the bathroom, leaned over the toilet, squeezed his knot as hard as he could and moaned out several orgasms. His aim was pathetic, but he left the mess there for Sherlock to find. Fuck him and his needy arsehole. He hoped the smell of Alpha ejaculate sent him into heat anyway. 

XXXXXXXX

If John hadn’t seen Sherlock still wrapped in a sheet on the computer screen later that day, he would have panicked and thought rape the second he saw him sitting in it _still_ in the middle of Buckingham Palace. As it was they both had a laugh over it. 

Mycroft was _not_ amused, but then John would pay good money to see what an amused Mycroft looked like. 

It all nearly went to piss when Mycroft stepped on Sherlock’s sheet. John was torn between jumping Sherlock and defending him. He settled on getting a good look at his [tattoo](http://eychloii.tumblr.com/image/64607831177), since he’d been too preoccupied that morning. Alpha (red) and Dominant (black) tattoos were shaped like male puzzle pieces, with Omega (Blue) and Submissive (green) tattoos being their female counterparts. In a normal person, the two puzzle pieces would not connect, the point being for someone to line up their arm beside someone and see how their pieces lined up together; the governments idea of inspiring a sense of completion and encouraging breeding. John had always found it repulsive that his Alpha tattoo violated his Submissive tattoo. Sherlock was the same as he; his Dominant tattoo on the bottom was thoroughly fucking his Omega tattoo on the top. It was a kind of cruel joke to them both. Did the government think they completed themselves? John certainly didn’t feel complete. Of course, Beta Switches had it more offensive as their puzzle pieces (both orange outlined with black) were backing each other, one male and one female, able to be completed but forever looking in the wrong direction. As though the government was trying to shame them for their born gender and dynamic. 

John was more than a bit nervous about this Alpha Domme they had to investigate, but Sherlock had yet to be out-Dom’d, so he tried to relax about it. In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have relaxed. Especially when Sherlock revealed his plan. John instinctively attempted to subdue Sherlock when the fool had punched him a few houses from their goal. Sherlock really should have seen that coming, but perhaps he did since John never managed to get his mouth on Sherlock’s throat. Still, he felt a bit guilty about punching an Omega, even if Sherlock had thrown the first punch. His mother had raised him to _never_ hit Omegas… outside of the bedroom, that is. John doubted Sherlock got the reference to ‘Bad Days’ and he had no intention of explaining it later. It wouldn’t do to let Sherlock know he’d triggered bad memories; the man would just scoff and call it sentiment. 

Irene Adler, A.K.A. The Woman, was sitting in a chair completely starkers, her limp- but still impressive – Alpha cock resting serenely on one leg. John didn’t dare step too close to Sherlock. If he smelled arousal he might just rip The Woman apart. Although, judging by the predatory look of her she’d probably just mount and fuck _them both_ instead.

_ Stop thinking about mounting and fucking! Damn you Sherlock!! _

Kate, Miss Adler’s Beta (Switch? Sub?) maid was clearly not impressed with either of them and disappeared upstairs shortly after they arrived. Poor thing. She probably never saw the American’s coming. 

XXXXXXXX

_ Damn that text alert!  _

John was going to slit his own throat if he had to hear that pleasured sigh one more time. He thought he’d seen Sherlock thinking fondly of him up until now, but clearly he was wrong. No matter where they were, no matter what they were doing, Sherlock dropped everything to answer that damned text alert. John wasn’t sure if he was more jealous of Sherlock or Miss Adler. 

He felt both guilty and relieved when she turned up dead on Christmas night. It cost him his latest girlfriend, but she- like those before her- had already figured out that Sherlock came before her. 

It was always two steps forward and one step back with Sherlock. He was hot and cold most days, but lately he’d just been cold and sad. When Irene Adler showed back up _alive_ John was ready to kill her. She seemed to sense that and was very patient with him for an Alpha Domme. 

“’I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner’,” She teased.

Twisting the knife. It was the story of John’s life, but he never thought Sherlock would join the many women in his life who had preferred to be Dominated ‘by a real Dom’, but by Sherlock’s reaction The Woman was far more attractive to him than his Perfect Match, Alpha Submissive, John Watson. Perhaps he preferred the female form; well, so did John, but he’d make an exception for his Perfect Match, Omega Dominant, Sherlock Holmes. Hadn’t he said he’d react badly to being Dom’d? Well, clearly not.

The world was truly an unfair place; never more than when Irene Adler was sitting in their flat and Sherlock’s eyes were glued to her. John had seen it enough to know it for what it was- obsession. He could do nothing but make stupid jokes and keep himself scarce. It wasn’t fair for him to have a double standard, anyway. John dated, why couldn’t Sherlock?

Then John had to witness Sherlock’s heartbreak as that _bitch_ manipulated him. Well, he didn’t actually witness that part. What he did do was pick up the pieces afterwards. He had to make sure Sherlock ate and slept, going so far as to slip him sleeping pills in his tea. He had to search the flat for drugs regularly and watch Sherlock for signs of intoxication. He had to be the pillar of strength, when he felt like a pillar of salt.

Still the detective managed to vanish repeatedly until the day John gave him The Woman’s cell phone one last time. It seemed to bring peace to him, and his moods settled into their normal erratic swing. John, however, remained unsettled and couldn’t help but feel that instead of taking one step back, Irene Adler had set them back miles.

XXXXXXXX

Cases flew by in rapid fire succession: so fast that on the day – on the Last Day – that he laid eyes on the living Sherlock Holmes he still hadn’t written all of them up. He still had comments to answer from The Hounds of Baskerville, some of them from their now dear friend Henry Knight, who he simply could not allow to find out about Sherlock’s death from the _lying papers_. The Case of The Red Headed Writer was still sitting on his desktop. The Week of the Naughty Neo Nazi’s wasn’t even typed up yet. The Australian Matchmakers had only been solved a few days ago. Yet it was all over. All gone with only a phone call to say goodbye and then one heartbreaking drop from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.

John should have seen it coming. He should have recognized the signs. Omega Dom’s had the highest suicide rate of any other gender/dynamic grouping at a whopping 95%; making them virtually extinct since they were a rarity to begin with. Only Alpha Sub’s came close to them, having a 75% suicide rate. 

Thinking of that made him remember his old support group from Uni. He’d been connected to them through the school counselor when his dorm mate found him contemplating a razor blade right before finals. He’d been given an electric razor and a web address. Aside from their online chat group, once every six months groups of Alpha Subs would meet in each major continent and spend some time ‘relieving tension’. John hadn’t been to a meeting in years, not since right after basic training. John pulled up his phone and called the nearest three Alpha Sub friends of his, only to find their numbers had all been changed.

Feeling a sense of dread, John pulled up the website; it would list their deaths and the causes. After a few hours of searching all he came up with was that the site for England was practically down. Almost none of his friends used it any more. Curious he logged onto open chat to ask around.

** JW: Anyone know where Frank Levanti, Jessy McDonald, and Christopher DeVant got off to? I don’t have their numbers anymore but they aren’t listed under obits. Good news would be welcome. **

** FC: Long time no see JW! Thought you bought the farm. **

** JW: Not me. You can’t kill someone who’s already dead inside. **

** LS: Damn, FC, don’t you watch the news? You OK John? **

** JW: Been better. Could use company. Preferably company on the same continent as I am. How’s life across The Pond, LS? **

** LS: Duller than life over there. I know EXACTLY what you need, and where your ‘mates’ are. That’s what you folks call them over there, right? Mates? Let me know how it is. I’m thinking of moving out there, too. XD **

John wrote down the number Lisa Suthers sent him in a PM and quickly typed it into his phone. 

“Master, speaking,” the voice on the phone went straight to John’s cock and he shivered in a mixture of fear and excitement. 

Then he hung up the phone. 

_ Think like Sherlock. What would he do? _

John typed the phone number into the computer, searched about for a bit, and found a website. 

** Master Omega Dominant **

He had a ranch at an undisclosed location where he kept his lovers in an old fashioned Master/slave(s) harem: a harem full of Alpha Submissives. Their pictures graced the website, though veils hid most of their features from sight John still recognized most of them. Six of his Alpha Sub support group members were out at that ranch in some sort of _sex cult_. Four other Alpha Subs were listed, he didn’t recognize them, but then they did look Indian and he didn’t know anyone from India. This Master Omega Dominant had ten total slaves, all of them Alpha Subs, and all of them apparently happy to serve him for eternity. He claimed he could send an Alpha Submissive straight into subspace in ten minutes flat. 

John licked his lips. He’d never experienced subspace. Sub _drop_ he’d had in abundance while in the military, but sub _space_? Never.

John’s phone rang and he belatedly realized that he should have blocked his number before calling. He answered it but remained silent. The number was on the website. He could be anyone.

“Hello, my dear,” The deep voice purred, “I know you are listening. I know what you need. I can supply it in _abundance_.”

John hung up again. 

Three full months passed before that number called him again, and by then John was desperate. 

[CHAPTER SIX](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/59388.html)


	6. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match fic Ch 6

** I will be in the area at 1300 today. Meet me at Roussillon off Pimilco Rd – MOD **

John blinked at the text message. It had been months since he’d heard from Master Omega Dom, and he was still feeling the urge to jump when the bastard threw him an order. Currently his mouth was dry and his palms were damp. He was already running through schedules for the tube and how he could manage to be there after meeting with Lestrade at 10 this morning. 

That’s when he heard it. It started soft and it slowly built until John could feel the vibrations tugging at his heartstrings. He was dreaming again. Dreaming about Sherlock, who had jumped and left him unpleasantly alive three years ago. He tugged on his robe, knowing there was nothing for it but to drag himself downstairs to face the music, as it were. 

The sitting room was just filling with pink morning light and it was utterly picturesque, but nothing could be more beautiful than that figure at the window moving a bow across a Stradivarius as though it were an extension of his body. John had always bemoaned Sherlock’s lack of interest in pursuing a musical career. He had once commented that if he had the world would be a more horrible, but more beautiful place*. 

_ At least Sherlock would still be alive. _

John stood still, barely breathing, and listened to the music flow for what seemed like ages. The sun had moved from pink to yellow, the room from long shadows to short, before Sherlock lowered the bow and turned to face John. John squeezed his eyes shut and choked on a sob. This was the worse part of the dream: not that he couldn’t smell Sherlock or touch him, but that when he turned around his eyes would be open, glassy, and framed by blood. 

“It’s all right, John. I know it’s a shock, but I assure you, I had reasons. Very good ones, in fact.”

“You’re not a fraud. I won’t believe that,” John sobbed, “You won’t make me tell those lies about you.”

“No. Not a fraud. John, open your eyes.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m tired of seeing you broken and bleeding on that damned pavement!” John crumbled. 

This was the worse dream yet. None of the others had demanded he _look_ at Sherlock. None of them had rationalized with him the way Sherlock would have. None of them had touched…

Touched his shoulder, just the barest pressure, then a breath in and he could smell it. Omega. Sandalwood and rubbing alcohol. Dust. Sherlock. 

“Oh my god.” 

John punched him. He came straight off the floor and clocked Sherlock hard enough to knock him unconscious had he not anticipated it and jumped up at the same time. He still managed to chin him, but not with near the force he was aiming for. 

Instincts took over. They both snarled, growled, and tackled each other. They were twisting and fighting, each trying to turn the other around so they could mount and subdue them. John had no idea Sherlock’s Omega would even try such a thing, but apparently his Dom was all for it. Sherlock was a better fighter, but John was well and truly angry and he managed to pin Sherlock down on the floor, grinding his hips against him, but was tossed before he could get his mouth to the flexible man’s neck.

John found himself on his back with the wind knocked out of him, but instead of flipping him over and mounting him in turn Sherlock straddled him. They were hip-to-hip, face-to-face, and Sherlock dove down and latched onto John’s neck, sucking hungrily as he marked John as his junior pack member. John moaned eagerly, his Submissive side thrilled, but his Alpha was hard and needy. John latched onto Sherlock’s neck in turn and thrust up eagerly to remind him that _he_ was the Alpha here! 

Sherlock moaned and John felt an answering hardness rubbing directly against his quickly expanding knot.

_ This sort of thing isn’t supposed to be sexual, but…  _

“Oh, god, Sherlock!” John cried out before shoving at his head and starting a mark on the other side. 

Sherlock pulled away before he could latch on properly and yanked John’s pajama bottoms down. He gripped John’s cock and squeezed the knot with one hand while stroking the shaft with the other, while working his own smaller prick against John’s shaft with eager thrusts. John literally tore Sherlock’s trousers open at the back and shoved two fingers inside of him with enough force to make the man hiss. When Sherlock moved from John’s shaft up to his cockhead he cried out and writhed, pleasure exploding as his knot expanded and released. He only vaguely noticed the sound of Sherlock moaning out his own release, but he most certainly caught the scent of it. 

They lay there, gasping and staring at each other in shock for a moment.

“Well,” Sherlock stated firmly, “let that be a lesson to you.”

“What… What lesson?!”

“If you’re going to believe in me, you might as well do it completely, or not at all. You’d have been better off _listening_ when I said it was a magician’s trick and believing, or thinking I’d lied and hating me this whole time. Instead you decided on believing half of what I said and torturing yourself for three years. Really, you only have yourself to blame.”

“If you don’t get off of me now, I’m going to _really_ hit you.”

Mrs. Hudson took it much better, really. She cried and made lots of incomprehensible high-pitched statements before putting the pot on for tea. She calmed once she’d had a sip or two and then laid into Sherlock for ‘abandoning John so terribly’.

Lestrade took a page out of John’s book and tackled Sherlock to the floor of the NSY, humping him and sucking a mark opposite John’s. Sherlock didn’t fight him, though, which only gave proof to John’s belief that Lestrade was Sherlock’s pack Alpha. He _did_ fight off Donovan when she tried to rub against him to mark him as pack, and succeeded. She was left nursing a broken nose. 

“Thank god Molly is an Omega and Anderson a Beta or I’d be defending my virtue for days!” Sherlock snapped after glaring Donovan down when she started creeping up out of her chair again, “I have no problem marking _you_ , you know.”

“Anderson’s part of your pack?” John asked in amusement.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock sneered.

“You know, Greg called me down here this morning about a case, didn’t you, Greg?” John reminded, trying hard not to bounce on his feet. 

_ This is too good to be true. Back to the good old days! _

“Yeah, I did, but it’s not something I wanted your help on, I’m afraid,” Greg stated, giving John a guilty look, “The vic had your name on a card in her purse. I called you here to ID her.”

The drive to St. Barts was painfully quiet, and barely comforted by Sherlock gently touching John’s hand in a show of support. That was practically a statement of undying love for someone like Sherlock. John took advantage and clasped his hand tightly, but he soon tugged it free, refusing to meet John’s eyes.

Molly pulled back the zip after warning John that the woman was badly beaten.

“Lisa Suthers. American. Alpha Submissive. _God_ she sent me an e-mail a week ago saying she was visiting. We were going to meet for tea. What happened?”

“You don’t want to know,” Lestrade stated firmly, motioning Molly to zip her up again. 

John took one last glance at her blue face, took in the swelling on her cheek and the split lip, and decided he really didn’t. 

“Family? Friends?”

“I wouldn’t know, we weren’t that close. She was part of a group I knew from Uni, but I never met her in person. I only saw pictures of her and we chatted online a few times. She has… had… a fantastic sense of humor.” 

John gave the group of them a wry smile, but if they thought he’d break down they were wrong. He’d been prepared to see any number of people on that slab. He was almost ashamed of his relief at it being Lisa. At least he’d never slept with her, or worse, been related to her. He had six cousins it could have been, and countless former girlfriends. 

“I’m sorry for your loss, John.” Lestrade soothed, squeezing his arm comfortingly. Molly and Sherlock muttered the same and Donovan headed to the door, phone on ear and giving what she knew to Anderson to start searching.

“You hear about Alpha Subs, but you never expect to see one,” Lestrade stated, “This bother you, Sherlock?”

“No, why would it?” Sherlock asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Might have been your Perfect Match, though I’d eat my left arm before I’d expect you to settle down and start having cubs,” Lestrade teased lightly, though he did still look concerned.

_ They don’t know what I am. _ John realized.

“Got her,” Sally announced as they were getting back in Lestrade’s car, “She just up and quit her job two weeks ago and no one knew why. Her boss says she had no immediate family or close friends. He was listed as next of kin and it hadn’t been updated since then.”

“Lover?” Lestrade asked.

“Obviously.” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Nope,” John stated flatly, “Lisa never dated or had sex. She took a vow of chastity decades ago.”

“People break those all the time,” Sherlock laughed. 

“Not Lisa. Alpha Sub, remember?” John reminded, though Sherlock would have recalled, “Difficult to have a relationship with anyone. She didn’t fancy women, male Alpha’s disgusted her, and Omega males were completely uninterested in her.” 

“Why?” Sherlock asked in clear confusion.

“Because she couldn’t Dom them.” 

“She could pretend to. How hard is Dom’ing? You just smack someone about until they beg for your cock. Simple.”

John stared at Sherlock, not even sure where to begin. 

“Yeah, submitting is much harder,” Lestrade agreed from the front, “I don’t care how poorly endowed Omega’s are, it takes bollocks to lay back and let someone beat you.”

“Omega are _not_ poorly endowed, our endowments are internal.” Sherlock snapped.

“Apologies, Sherlock, but you know what I meant.”

Sally snickered and the car dropped silent.

“It’s not…” John started, but gave up when he found himself blushing in shame. He couldn’t get every time he’d tried to Dom a woman out of his head. How he’d felt disgusted with himself. How he’d felt like she was no longer a person, and that _he’d made her that way_. He’d scrubbed himself raw afterwards.

“What, John. Did you remember something?” Sherlock asked, looking hopeful.

“No. Nothing. Forget it.”

“You’ve had a day of it, I’ll drop you off at home and you two can do some catching up, yeah?” Lestrade offered.

“No, I’d rather help…” John was interrupted by the police radio. 

“Shit,” Sally stated firmly. 

“Cancel that, you two want to get out here or join us at a crime scene?” Lestrade asked gamely.

“Crime scene,” John and Sherlock chorused.

The warehouse was practically falling apart, bits of light filtering through the ceiling and rats skittering about in all directions. They didn’t go near the body of the man in question, though, because a large metal ring had been placed around him and electrified. Piles of dead rats had surrounded him by the time the first officers responded to the anonymous call and detached the wires from the impromptu electric circuit. Anderson had been closer and had already reached the scene to pronounce time of death. 

“Two days, maybe three!” He shouted as they headed towards him, “Don’t you two muck this up, our killer went to a lot of trouble to preserve the scene for us!”

He didn’t seem shocked to see Sherlock alive. Word traveled fast at New Scotland Yard.

“John, you replace Anderson,” Sherlock ignored Anderson’s argument, “and I’ll take a look at this contraption our killer rigged.”

“Now hold on a minute…!” Anderson protested.

“Oh, let them. Just like old times, eh?” Lestrade announced cheerily. 

Their amusement was short lived. John knelt over the man’s body and sucked in his breath in horror, thankfully through his mouth or he might have been sick.

“I’ll have to double check, but I think cause of death is fairly clear.” 

“Raped to death by an Alpha,” Anderson said, voice lowered respectfully at the horror before him.

“Looks like, and right here, as well,” John replied, equally subdued. “I see abrasions consistent with restraint, but no signs of struggle, so this appears to have been consensual sex play… unless the person was drugged but I don’t smell any vomit, which you usually get with date rape drugs. Have to wait on the tox-screen for more on that.”

Anderson nodded and made a note in the pad he carried.

“Several superficial wounds, these are knives,” John pointed out the chest and stomach after the person was rolled over, “and these are from a riding crop… there were some of those on the back, buttocks, and thigh as well. The penis has been bound for far too long in a cock ring meant for an Omega, I doubt the tissue was living when this poor soul was killed. Some signs of strangulation, but no hemorrhaging in the eyes, so that wasn’t our cause of death. And… and you’ve got a serial killer on your hands.” 

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock asked, head eagerly flying up from where he was examining the car batteries used to keep the rats away.

“Serial killer, Sherlock, you’ve come back in time to find a serial killer.” 

“Now let’s not jump to conclusions, what makes you say that?” Lestrade asked, sounding worried.

“This blokes an Alpha Submissive, too,” John held up the man’s arm and Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged worried looks. 

“You know him?” Lestrade asked after Anderson leaned over and hissed something in his ear.

“No,” John stated, standing stiffly and leaving Sherlock to his deduction.

“You sure?” Anderson asked, giving John his slimiest look.

John took a moment to glance back at the man’s face, but shook his head again. “Why?”

Anderson pointed to the ground by his feet. A sentence was written on the ground, apparently the victim’s last words written in his own blood. 

**_ Hello, John H. Watson _ **

XXXXXXXXXXX

John was pacing the interrogation room at NSY, despite the fact that Sherlock had called him an attorney and Lestrade was reminding him over and again that he wasn’t a suspect.

“Just tell us how you knew him, and we’ll file it away, that’s it.”

“You aren’t to question him until his lawyer arrives,” Sherlock growled.

“Fuck’s sake, Sherlock, I’m _not_ questioning him. This is all unofficial. I haven’t arrested him. We’re not even recording.”

John’s phone rang. It was the third time, but he’d been ignoring it. 

“If this isn’t an official interrogation, can I get out of here? I need some air.”

“Yeah, sure, go.” Lestrade sighed, “Just stop looking so nervous, it makes you seem guilty.”

They all filed out of the room and John’s phone went off again. This time he answered it, glad to have something to do with his hands.

“Hello?”

“So you _are_ alive. I was beginning to fear you were lying dead somewhere,” Master Omega Dom taunted.

John froze like a deer in headlights, and no amount of shame at what his friends were seeing and _smelling_ could get him to unfreeze. His only hope was that they wouldn’t be able to tell where the fear smell was coming from. There were lots of Alpha’s in one small area, surely his scent would be hard to decipher?

“Master… I… I can explain.” John stammered, keeping his voice low and trying to relax his posture and expression.

“Can you, really? It is nearly 1500 hours. You can explain why you stood me up, did not even text me, and decided to ignore my calls?” That voice was cold with anger.

“Well… you see… someone I know just died, Master, and…” 

“John, who is that on the phone?” Sherlock sounded shocked and worried. “What’s frightened you?”

_ Damn you, you perceptive bastard.  _ John refused to meet their eyes and hurried towards the exit, taking his stink of fear with him.

“I’m in mixed company, I can’t talk now,” John hissed into the phone.

“No one is above my station, John; no one more important to you than I am. You will speak with me now.”

Lestrade and Sherlock were following him, and Donovan wasn’t far behind. They all looked extremely concerned and John was finding the hallway he’d fled to echoed and only drew in more people wondering where the fear smell was. 

“I don’t have a bloody contract with you!” John shouted into the phone, suddenly overwhelmed by the entire day, “Just stay the fuck away from me!”

John hung up the phone and stood there, shaking like a leaf and trying to figure out _some way_ to explain this to his friends.

“Sir,” Donovan called, “There’s been another body found. Alpha Submissive, just like the first two; Anderson says three hours old.”

“Can you come to the scene, John?” Lestrade asked softly.

“Of course he can’t!” Sherlock shouted, but John nodded and followed Donovan and Lestrade out of the building. Sherlock trailed behind, fuming and muttering obscenities.

As soon as John knelt over the naked man’s body he let out a horrified groan and stood up, backing away slowly. 

“John?” Lestrade asked, alarmed at the look of anguish on John’s face.

Sherlock was at his side in an instant, breathing in his scent and tugging him away from the corpse.

_ “Franky,”  _ John groaned rubbing at his eyes as they started watering furiously, “Oh, god, they _raped_ him. Sherlock, they _raped_ him to death.”

“Outside, John, get some fresh air,” Sherlock tugged him out of the alley and Lestrade barked orders before following them.

“That… that could have been me. That could have… my god, Sherlock, it’s _him_ , but how is he _doing it_? He’s not _like us_.”

“Who, John? Who is it?” Sherlock asked, shaking him a bit.

“I’ll… I’ll _kill him_!” Just that quickly John went from Sub to Alpha, from trembling in terror to shaking with fury. He tugged out of Sherlock’s grasp and took off down the street, running blindly and nearly knocking several people over. 

Sherlock tackled him and pinned him to the ground, letting him snarl and scream his rage out until he went limp in his arms, sobbing like a child. 

“You were lovers?” Sherlock asked softly.

John nodded into his shirt, “Yeah, but not just with Franky.”

*Summarized from the books.

[CHAPTER SEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/59521.html)


	7. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match fic Ch 7

** Six Months After Fall of Reichenbach **

_ “So, John, I understand that you had an Omega Dominant of your own but lost him in a tragedy?” _

_ John was following the impossibly tall man through a compound in what seemed to be part interview and part tour. He gestured to his slaves as he passed and John saw many faces he recognized dropped in obeisance just before they bowed low. They seemed happy, at least. _

_ “Yes, Sir, but…” _

_ “The correct response is ‘Yes, Master’. Don’t make me punish you on your first day, John.” _

_ “I… Yes, Master.” _

_ “You were going to add something?” _

_ “He and I weren’t… We weren’t  _ intimate _, Master.”_

_ “Then you are a virgin.” _

_ “Oh, gods, no, Master.” John laughed a bit, but the tall man before him did not join him. _

_ “Were your previous trysts in any way fulfilling?” The man asked, pausing to glance over his shoulder at John before continuing quickly on. _

_ John thought about all the times he had to squeeze his eyes shut and imagine his position with his lover reversed, that he was the one tied and beaten. Then he thought of all the times he hadn’t gotten off at all. Then he thought of all the times his partner hadn’t gotten off at all. Then he thought of all the times that had ended with him doubled over a toilet being sick. _

_ “Not… not so much, no, Master.” _

_ “Then you  _ are _a virgin. I forgive you for your previous transgressions where others were concerned and you will start here with a new slate. Try to dispense of any preconceived notions you might have about sex. I assure you, they will be useless to you with me. I approach things on an,” here he stopped his movements in a garden and turned to John with a flourish, “_ entirely _different level. You will be sated. You will be more than sated, and your satisfaction will be_ my _completion.”_

_ John shivered at the intensity of that strong figure; not at his eyes, no, John hadn’t met his eyes once. Couldn’t even tell you his hair color or if he had a beard. His instincts wouldn’t allow it. Where he would have stared Sherlock down any number of times, this man was unapproachable, and yet John could feel himself leaning forward as a plant to sunlight.  _

_ “Yes, Master.” _

_ “So well behaved. Training you is going to be... _ painless _.” His emphasis promised quite the opposite._

_ “Now, I will leave you to get acclimated before any contracts are drawn up. Sophie?” _

_ John blinked and a beautiful Alpha woman appeared beside him, head respectfully lowered as his was. At least she wasn’t wearing slave garb like in the pictures. Instead she was dressed in comfortable looking loose kaki pants and a billowing flowered blouse, which showed off her rather full bosom.  _

No looking, Watson, she’s off limits here. _John scolded himself._

_ As soon as the Master stepped back inside the house Sophie threw her arms around John’s shoulders and he found himself clutching her quite tightly.  _

_ “Are you alrigh…?” _

_ “I’m so glad you…!” _

_ They paused, separated, and gave each other wary looks.  _

_ “If you’re here to cause trouble for Master you can leave right now!” Sophie snapped. _

_ “Sophie, I… I’m not! You just! Are you  _ alright _?”_

_ “Of course I am! Look where I am! Look who I’m with!” She gestured around expressively. “An  _ Omega Dom _, John. Have you ever even met another one?”_

Two, actually. _John thought, but left it unsaid._

_ “An Omega Dom and 9 other slaves, yes, I see that. Again, are you all right? I mean… all of…  _ this _.”_

_ “The compound? It’s lovely! So are the people, since you’re probably asking that as well. We adore each other.” _

_ Sophie folded her arms angrily and John felt himself flush with shame. He’d come here looking for relief, for help dealing with the bouts of subdrop he kept ending up in; he’d been hospitalized four times already. Lestrade was starting to ask questions and John was horrified of the discrimination it would garner him if he came out as an Alpha Submissive. They treated Sherlock differently; they’d treat him differently, too. Here it would be different. Here he had a chance to be himself for the first time in his life. It wasn’t fair of him to look a gift horse in the mouth… no matter how many Greeks it probably contained.  _

_ “I’m sorry, Sophie, I’ve spent too much time with the police. It’s made me paranoid.” _

_ “Well… just try to keep an open mind, okay? It’s terribly old fashioned, what with the Master/slave thing, but I think you’ll find it’s really quite perfect for our kind. It takes away the guesswork. Come on, I’ll introduce you.” _

_ John hated the guesswork; hated not knowing instinctively what his lovers wanted and needed. They were usually as baffled with him as he was with them, too. It was like trying to hold a conversation with someone who wasn’t fluent in your language. You kept trying to read body language knowing full well that it was just as foreign and that half the conversation was going by the wayside.  _

_ John didn’t return home for two months, and when he did he dropped into such a deep state of subdrop immediately after stepping into 221B that he was comatose for an entire month. He never told anyone where he’d been or with whom, no matter how desperately Lestrade questioned him.  _

_ He’d been too well trained.  _

** Present day **

“No. Nope. No.”

“For fuck’s sake, John!” Lestrade threw his arms up and stormed out of his office, “Your turn, Sherlock, he won’t talk to me!”

John braced himself and tucked the blanket they’d given him tighter around his shoulders. This was going to be far harder than dealing with Lestrade. Sherlock’s whim was something he was used to bowing to; and that Sherlock was used to seeing obeyed. He doubted the Dom would understand John’s recalcitrance. 

“John, let me see your arm,” Sherlock demanded the second he stepped into the office. 

John was so thrown that he simply extended it. Sherlock rolled up the jumper and stared at John’s intimate tattoos. 

“Do you know why these tattoo’s are placed at the apex of the elbow? Of course you do, you went to medical school. It’s so Dom’s and Sub’s aren’t given fatal I.V. doses of opposing medications. It would be so easy for you to slip into a fatal subdrop with one single dose of Dom medications; half a dose, even.”

John nodded vaguely. He had no idea where it was headed but he was fairly certain it was going to be painful. Sherlock was ruthless, and John had no illusions that he’d hold his punches for his old flatmate. He still had no idea where Sherlock had been this whole time, but his eyes had changed. His eyes looked like a soldiers who had seen action. His eyes said he’d killed.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Headed for subdrop? Or in it now? I can see you shaking, you’re covered in goose bumps; Lestrade is inclined to blame your tour in Afghanistan, but I think we both know you’ve acclimated to London weather by now.”

“In it.” John replied, feeling the words thick on his tongue. Any longer and he’d start dissociating and be completely unable to reply.

“I’ve already mentioned to you that I have no training as a Dom. I can’t possibly give you what you need.”

John’s mind jolted and suddenly he was back at the compound. Master standing over him. Knife in hand. _Only I can give you what you need._

“John! JOHN!” Sherlock was shaking him and with an animalistic cry he threw himself onto the ground and into _saikeirei_ , facing off towards Lestrade’s desk rather than towards Sherlock. He had no idea who he was bowing to anyway, his former Master or the man he should have submitted himself to.

“LESTRADE! CALL AN AMBULANCE!!”

John barely heard the last syllable before everything went white and cold.

When John came around he was startled to find Sherlock sitting in a chair in the hospital room. John carefully sat himself up, feeling stiff but not dehydrated. He had a saline drip in his arm, but that wouldn’t keep his mouth from feeling gritty.

“Hours? Minutes?” He asked Sherlock.

“Two hours, thirty-three minutes, and forty-two seconds since you dropped into fucking _saikeirei_. Is it even safe to ask you what happened now?”

“No.”

Sherlock stood up and simply left the room. John took in the disgust on his face and slid back into white, cold, peaceful emptiness and decided not to return.

This time he was decidedly weak and his tongue felt like a chunk of wood. The moment his heavy eyes stirred someone pressed an ice chip between his lips. He moaned his relief and sucked on it enthusiastically. A second was pressed to his cracked lips and he nearly nipped the finger taking it in.

A soft chuckle; he recognized the voice, but couldn’t place it.

“You just have to know how to handle them, Sherlock. They’re so very _responsive_. Come by the compound and I’ll give you lessons. I’m sure there are _some_ living Alpha Subs that aren’t already mine. If not perhaps I can spare Susan. She’s never quite fit in.”

_Oh. My. God._

John’s eyes flew open and he choked on his ice chip as he flailed a bit. Master Omega Dom stilled his movements with a narrowed glance and pulled him upright with one arm. John spit the ice chip into Master’s hand and looked at it forlornly as the man dumped it into a bin. He wiped his hands off on a handkerchief and glared at John as though he’d done it purposely. John supposed he wouldn’t get any more ice chips, and he sincerely needed them. Sherlock rescued him by stepping forward with the cup and slipping one into his mouth when his hands proved too weak to accept it. Sherlock and Master glared at each other in silence and John expected sparks to fly in the air between them. Two such gales could not possibly meet without lightning being the result.

“Very responsive, indeed,” Sherlock deadpanned. 

“How… how long?” John croaked, not recognizing his own voice.

“Two months,” They both answered before glaring again. 

_ Two months in a subdrop coma. Shit. _ John thought. 

“Lie back and rest, John,” Master stated firmly, “I’ll tell the doctor you’re awake and we’ll make arrangements for you to come home.”

“Home… I… no…”

“Time to stop fighting this, John. No arguments this time. I won’t hear of it. _Two months_ in subdrop coma? And the whole month last time? If D.I. Lestrade hadn’t gotten me in to see you this time… Be a good lad, now, and rest. Say your goodbyes to Sherlock; I’m afraid you won’t be able to communicate with him anymore. I’ve explained the situation to him and he’s quite understood despite your infidelity to _both_ of us. He’s prepared to accept your apology and has acknowledged my standing as your new Master. Keep it brief, please, Sherlock.”

“Of course.” Sherlock stated simply.

“Sherlock,” John hissed the moment the door shut behind Master, “He’s the one. He’s the one who killed…”

“He has a solid alibi, John,” Sherlock stated without meeting John’s eyes, “Airtight, in fact.”

“My friends…” John started coughing and Sherlock waited before pressing another ice cube into his mouth. 

“Your friends were not in his service at the time they were killed. Frank Levanti was dismissed three weeks prior to his death- signed and notarized copies of the dismissal papers have been produced- and Lisa Suthers never made it to the ranch. The second fellow you saw was a complete stranger to your Master. They had no connection.”

“Not… Not my Master…” John wheezed a moment, sucked at the ice cube, and tried again, “No contract.”

“I think we both know you don’t need a contract to be part of a relationship, John.” Sherlock’s words were damning, his eyes meeting John’s finally with a calculating rage behind them.

_ Oh, god, he thinks I’ve betrayed him somehow, but how? _

“What… did… I… do?”

“Aside from lead me on for 18 months? Aside from accost me sexually the moment you saw me again _despite having a new Master already_? One you had submitted to far more than you ever had me?”

“I never… no sex, Sherlock, I swear…” 

“With him or the women you dated while flirting with me? Never mind. He’s explained that already. The Alpha urge to mount everything combined with a Submissives urge to bow down to them. You can’t help yourselves, you _Alpha Submissives_ ,” Sherlock spat the words as if they tasted foul; they certainly sounded it to John’s ears.

“No, please, I di… didn’t kn… know…” John could feel tears rolling down his cheeks but he didn’t even try to stop them. He’d been _hurting_ Sherlock the entire time! That was why he gave him such a hot and cold act. He’d felt betrayed! Cheated on! Sherlock had gone to great lengths to insult and drive away his girlfriends and _John had kept bringing them round_. Flaunting them in Sherlock’s face! In his _real_ Omega Dom’s face!

“You can deny this to yourself all you want, John, but he was the only one capable of bringing you out of a two month long subdrop coma,” Sherlock held up his hand as John began to protest again, “He _is_ your Master and it’s high time you stopped neglecting him. A final word of advice? You’re lucky enough to find your Perfect Match. I thought I w… nevermind. Stop arguing with him over _semantics_. Sign the damn contract. Goodbye, John.”

Without a final glance back Sherlock turned and swept out of the room leaving John to wish for something more final than death. John felt the tremors start first, and then the cold swept up his body and settled around his chest, his teeth began to chatter violently. John slipped down into the white coldness with a sense of relief. If he were lucky, this time he wouldn’t emerge again. 

XXXXXX

John was lost in the routine of the ranch. Dig. Scoop. Plant. Bury. Water. Fertilize. Dig. Scoop. Plant. Bury. Water. Fertilize. The herb garden looked spectacular, and all the other Alpha Submissives were basking in Master’s praise. John was silent and stony. He couldn’t force himself to become excited over _planting a garden_ when he had led a life that involved _chasing down murderers_. 

John shifted uncomfortably in his poorly fitted cock cage, it was plastic rather than metal, but sometimes that made it worse. It didn’t heat up in the stifling heat, but it did stick unpleasantly if he didn’t manage to get talcum powder absolutely everywhere beneath it before Master locked it in place after John’s shower. They all showered together. It was the one time they were allowed to touch each other, though never to penetrate; not even the famale Alphas were allowed to be penetrated. Master would stand and watch and they would quickly get each other off knowing that if they didn’t finish before he got board he’d stuff them into their cock cages and leave them wanting. 

Each day Master chose two lovers to take to bed with him: one in the morning and one at night. There was no rotation schedule and sometimes a person went months without being with him. John had yet to be with Master and had refused to take part in the morning wank sessions. Master told him he hadn’t learned his place yet; once he had he would participate willingly in all aspects of the compound. Only then would Master take him to bed.

This was the second time John went through his Sub training with Master, so he knew what to expect. If he kept being headstrong for long enough Master would give him an ultimatum. One day of solid perfect behavior and he’d get to see subspace. Last time he had made it and had been told he’d be servicing master the next morning. The anticipation was supposed to make it sweeter, but John had panicked and ran in the middle of the night, thrashing through the woods until he found a main road and flagged a truck down. John was starting to think subspace wasn’t real. The other Alpha Subs kept describing it to him, but it just sounded like the early stages of subdrop. 

“But it feels, good! Subdrop feels bad! It’s not the same!” Tony had practically shaken him, frantic to get his point across. The others had given him odd looks. John had just stared at them blankly. 

“I think he’s going under again, Master,” Susan pointed out, drawing Master’s attention to John again.

“John? Do you need a cuddle?”

“No, Master, I’m not going into subdrop. Thank you, Master.” _And fuck you, Susan._

“If you’re sure. I don’t want to leave you _needing_.”

_ You always leave us needing. We’re one big mess of needy whimpering puppies, begging for a chance to suck your teats. We’re pathetic. _

“Thank you, Master.”

_ Is this what submitting is supposed to be? I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. Was Harry like this with Clara? If so, no wonder she drank. No wonder she left. God, I wish I were dead. Why couldn’t I have died before this? _

“Master?”

“Yes, John, you may speak.”

_ Woof. Woof.  _ “May I call my sister today?”

“If you can manage to behave for the rest of today then I will let you call her tomorrow after breakfast.”

_ Unless I mess up at breakfast, and I always mess up at breakfast. I can’t function before I’ve had my first cuppa. _

“Thank you, Master.”

Harry cried when John called her four days later. She begged him to leave and come home. She told him it wasn’t _healthy_ for someone to Dom that many people. She told him their Dom was playing god. 

“I can’t leave, Harry, I love it here,” John lied in an absolutely unconvincing tone. Master could control his words, but not the feelings behind them, “Let Sherlock know, won’t you? I hope he isn’t worried…”

The phone fell dead and John looked down to see a very angry Master had held down the cradle button.

“The booth for you, I think. Perhaps you’ll remember that _his name_ is not to be spoken in this compound!”

Oops. Jealousy would get him hours in the booth. Maybe days. 

John lay in the dead silence and pure darkness and tried to keep his head above the water. The entire booth reeked of the eucalyptus and water solution he was left to bob in. It wasn’t deep, but he couldn’t rest his head anywhere due to the coffin-like shape and the level of the water. Not for long, anyway. If he fell asleep he’d sink under and get a face full of toxic water. That would lead to vomiting, which he’d then have to lie in. He also tried not to piss. He knew from a medical standpoint that urine was sterile, but it still bothered him to _lay in it,_ especially if it was going to be for days. He’d rather the infection. Maybe the attention from being sick would knock him out of the funk he was in. Maybe he’d start seeing all the rainbows and butterflies that his friends saw every day. Maybe Master would whip him into a sexual frenzy, satisfy his every desire, and hold him gently as he came down from subspace without once letting him set a toe in subdrop.

Maybe pigs would fly and Sherlock would forgive him and take him back to Baker St.

John began to cry, softly at first, but then louder and louder. The plugs in his ears and the water around his head kept him from hearing even his own tortured screams in the padded sensory deprivation tank. He knew air got in somehow, but he didn’t think sound got out. At least he hoped not. Master would be furious if he heard John screaming for Sherlock on the top of his lungs.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was here. Sherlock was _in the compound._ Sherlock was here in the compound _talking to Master._

_ Maybe he’s come to buy me off of him? _ John thought with a more than hysterical giggle. He stood up from the vegetable garden, brushed the dirt off of his pants, and headed towards the porch where Master and Sherlock were having an animated discussion. 

Tony cut him off. 

“You’re not to go up there, Master says so.” 

“Go piss in the bushes, puppy. Out of my way!”

They tussled a moment, and Sherlock caught sight and started towards them with a concerned look on his face.

“Sherlock! Help! Get me out of this place! Please!” 

Tony landed a punch in his midsection and their row hit the ground, becoming a straight out brawl. Master was shouting for them to break it up and John soon found himself being tugged away from Tony by several hands. He shouted and fought but was overwhelmed by shear number. When he raised his head from his forced kneeling position in the dirt it was to see Sherlock staring down at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

_ What would you know about his expressions? You misread him for your entire friendship. _

“I’m sorry. Please. Please forgive me. I’ll submit to you. I’ll do anything you say.” John’s voice was scratchy with emotion.

“I wouldn’t believe him, Sherlock. He’s been here for months and has yet to make it five days with good behavior. I’m beginning to believe he was miss-labeled. Perhaps he’s a switch, after all. I have a friend who enjoys Switches. I might send him there.”

“No. No please!” What if it was further from Sherlock? He already had no idea where he was! “Sherlock, please, just tell me what you want me to do!”

_ Why am I really here? Give me a clue. Am I supposed to be gathering evidence? Has this been a ploy? There’s no proof here! Nothing!! _

“Come, Sherlock, we’ll take tea in my private chambers. Rajesh and Joseph, put _it_ in the pit. Then see to Tony’s scrapes.”

_ ‘It’. _ _I’ve been reduced to ‘it’. I’m not even a person any more._

John screamed as they tugged him away, but it wasn’t fear of punishment. It was seeing Sherlock turn and walk calmly after Master that tore the sound from his throat. He was shoved into the pit without an ounce of humanity, landing hard on the bricks below. 

“You make us all look bad. Do us a favor and end it,” Joseph dropped something into the pit with John and he stared down at it in joy. 

A knife. A small penknife, but a knife nonetheless. He could work with this; he’d been taught to kill men with less in the army. Surely killing yourself was easier than taking another person’s life?

John sat up in the pit and avoided looking up since he’d only be blinded. The pit was in the center of the garden and two mirrors made sure that it was filled with sunlight at all times. He would get only a trickle of water from the slow moving Sozu water garden suspended above. Every time he heard the ‘ _tonk’_ of the bamboo he would have to lift his head into the glaring light and open his mouth to catch the falling water. There was a moldy jacket and a tub of sun cream beside him, but he didn’t put it on. It wouldn’t matter soon. 

Master Omega Dominant’s Slaves  
Sarah  
Tony  
Sasha  
Joseph  
Nahid  
Firdose  
Ema  
Rhea  
Rajesh  
John Watson

[CHAPTER EIGHT](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/59807.html)


	8. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match fic Ch 8

_A young, sandy haired, nearly sun burnt, boy was playing in his front yard, kicking up dust and smacking a stick across the freshly painted privacy fence just to hear it rat-tat-tat. He was pretending it was machine gun fire. Anyone who saw him might have thought he wanted to get punished, but it was far from the truth. He was just being a typical 10-year-old boy. The song he was singing, however, was far from typical and shouldn’t have been allowed near such young ears._

_Dom Dom Dom Dom Dom,_  
Dom me baby !  
Dom Dom Dom Dom Dom ,  
Dom me baby !  
Dom Dom Dom Dom Dom ,  
Dom me baby dooooo!  
Whoa whoa whoa whoa ! 

_I love, love you darlin,_  
Cum and go with me !  
Come home with me !  
Baby I’m to seed !  
I need you darlin,  
So Cum and go with me!!  
Whoa whoa whoa whoa ! 

_Cum, cum, cum, cum,_  
Cum until we knot!  
Tell me darlin,  
We will never part!  
I need you darlin!  
So Cum, go with me!  
Whoa whoa whoa whoa ! 

_Yes I need you,_  
Yes I really need you  
Please say you'll never leave me!  
When you say you never  
Guess you really never  
You never give me a chance  
Cum… 

_“JOHN HAMISH WATSON! GO TO YOUR ROOM THIS INSTANT! DAMN IT, MARGARET, WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT PLAYING THOSE FILTHY SUB SONGS AROUND MY BOY? HE’S GOING TO BE AN ALPHA! A BIG STRONG ALPHA! GO TURN YOUR DAUGHTER SISSY IF YOU…”_

 XXXXXXXXX

John gave his head a shake and tried to re-focus. He was about to do something, wasn’t he? That’s right. He wasn’t ten anymore. This burning sunlight wasn’t the sort he was in willingly. He was going to kill himself so no one could ever burn him again.

_“I’ll burn the heart out of you.”_

Who said that? Not important. The only thing that was important was this penknife and John’s wrist. Would he see Franky again? Unlikely. Frank had been a Muslim. He was pretty sure they had their own Hell and Catholics like John weren’t welcome to burn there. He sure had been nice, though. People thought Muslims were mean because of the war, but that wasn’t true, and Frank had been a saint. Wait, was that blasphemous? It was probably not a good idea to be being blasphemous right before going to meet your maker. Or would he go to hell? He’d been a bad person; he probably would go to hell. Maybe Frank would be there, too. Did Muslims have a hell? If not, then Frank might not be there. Did Muslims and Catholics have the same hell? Probably. Hell seemed pretty simplistic. Frank had been nice; he was probably in Muslim Heaven, so John wouldn’t get to see him anyway. Only bad Subs went to Hell. Frank had been a good Sub. Susan had told him so. What was he doing again? Right. Penknife. Wrist. What was that hollow noise? Water dumped down on John’s head and he glanced up only to be blinded by two piercing lights. Sunlight. Two suns. How were there two suns? Mirrors. Right. Penknife. Wrist. Pressure. Damn, this thing was blunt. So were John’s nerves. Spots were dancing in front of his eyes from the mirrors and he was shaking badly.

XXXXXXXXXX

“I’m telling you, Sherlock, he’s perfectly fine. He has water, sun cream, and a jacket to put over his head. It’s a standard punishment.”

“I’ll draw my own conclusions, thank you very much.”

“This really is highly irregular, I could have you arrested for interfering with a Master/slave contract, which I’ve already told you John signed willingly.”

“Go ahead and call the police and I’ll… John? John! **Give me that! Now**!”

Sherlock had just used his Dom Voice on John. John was a bad Sub.

“Shit! How did he get that! He’s not to have weapons! You lot _know that_!”

John stood up and stretched to his full height to press the open penknife into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock had to drop to his knees and lean forward into the brick-lined pit, but he seemed unconcerned with the state of his trousers. How odd. Sherlock was a Dom. Shouldn’t he be worried about looking proper in front of something like John?

“Sorry, Sherlock,” John murmured, dropping to his knees. He couldn’t get all the way into _saikeirei_ in the narrow pit, but he could still show obedience.

“Get off your knees and give me your hand. I’m pulling you out of there.”

“I’m calling the police,” Master Omega Dominant headed to the house.

“No mobile reception. Too far out. His loss, our gain. Molly’s waiting with a car. Give me your hand.”

John stood there, looking at Sherlock’s hand, and couldn’t move.

“John! _Give me your hand_!”

“I… I can’t. I’m being punished. If I come out now, it will be worse. I don’t want to go back in the booth.”

“John… please… I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d be so unhappy. Please come with me. I’ll… I’ll take care of you. Properly. I’ll even ask Lestrade how so I do it right this time.”

_Oh, god, Sherlock._

John reached up and grasped Sherlock’s hand, bracing his feet against the wall. They scrabbled for a moment and then toppled backwards, John’s face landing heavily in Sherlock’s lap.

“Later, perhaps,” Sherlock teased, and John smiled for the first time in longer than he could recall.

“I don’t think so, Sherlock.”

The sound of numerous weapons being cocked had never sounded so unbearably lonely. Sherlock and John slowly clamored to their feet to face ten loaded weapons ranging from handguns to semi-automatics. John could see Sherlock tensing and planning something, probably to do with the penknife he still clutched in his hand, but Master was aware of it, too.

“I’ll kill him before I let you take him, and no one will believe it wasn’t an accident. The police have already been called. You coming here interfering with _my Subs_? No wonder someone got shot. Lucky there weren’t _loads_ of deaths with all these excitable Subs running around. Maybe I’ll get one of them to shoot you and really keep my hands clean.”

“The only life I’m concerned with is John’s,” Sherlock replied calmly, “He doesn’t obey you anyway. I’ll buy him from you. Name your price.”

“Your heart.”

“I have been reliably informed…”

“That you don’t have one, but we both know that’s not quite true,” Master stated, and John had a horrifying feeling of déjà vu, “Well, you’d better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.* John, get back in the pit. Now.”

John glanced at Sherlock, but that was apparently the wrong thing to do as Tony immediately shot the ground beside his foot. John shouted in surprise and pain as bits of brick sliced open his ankle and he toppled backwards. Sherlock didn’t move; didn’t try to stop his fall. John simply toppled backwards into the pit, taking down the water system, knocking one mirror askew, head and one shoulder smashing into the side, light from the remaining mirror blinding him, before blackness swallowed him at the bottom.

XXXXXXXX

_“I will burn the heart out of you.”_

John’s eyes flew open and his breath dragged into his lungs in frantic gasps. His head twisted and turned, surprised that he could see at all, expecting to be blindfolded, but he was still at the compound and the only inconvenience was that he was tied to the bed he was on. Not unusual; sometimes the Subs tied each other up for comfort. This time it wasn’t comforting.

“Oh, god, please let me have been dreaming.” John prayed frantically.

“Sorry, but no,” Master O.D. stated almost sadly.

John couldn’t take his eyes off of the carvings on the ceiling. He’d been looking at them for months, years it felt like. He’d seen them at the last compound he’d been at with Master Omega Dominant. They were hearts carved into nearly every surface of the wood… then carefully burnt around the edges. Master ordered them to carve them whenever they missed or thought of him. He provided them all with penknives, lighters, and matches to do so. According to Rhea, the ceiling of their dorm room had been the first project the Subs had done when they’d moved here. Above his bed was the largest heart of all. It looked like they would have needed a burning stick to make the outline. This bed had never been slept in before he had arrived.

_“As usual, John, you see but you do not observe.”_ Sherlock's voice haunted his mind.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. Oh, god, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry Sherlock.”

“John? It’s time.” Master Omega Dominant stated in a resigned voice.

XXXXXXXXXX

John was cold. So cold. He knew it was the middle of summer, but he was just so damned cold. It was nighttime. Maybe that was why he was cold? The pavement he was lying on might also have to do with that.

His mind was working, though. Clearly for the first time in forever. He knew this murder differed from the others in that John hadn’t been raped and left to bleed out at the scene. He knew that a break in pattern usually meant a serial killer was becoming sloppy or too excited and would leave behind a clue that would lead to their arrest. He knew that he’d been loosing blood steadily since Master had impaled him with the glass phallus, complete with glass knot, in the van, right before dumping him. He knew that he was hog-tied and that breathing, let alone calling for help, was made even more difficult by the muzzle strapped to his head. He knew that if he did not get help soon he would die.

He also knew that Master had dipped a finger in his bleeding hole and written something on the pavement, but he had no idea what was written and couldn’t get his head up to see. That part bothered him. If he had to have an epitaph he wanted to know what it was; that was his right as a dead man, wasn’t it?

“John? John! Help! Someone help! I need a doctor! Call 999!”

Mrs. Hudson was screaming at the top of her lungs. The violin music that John hadn’t realized he’d been listening to stopped, and a window opened. Sherlock swore and the pounding of feet filled John’s ears right before the scent of his Omega Dom filled his nose.

The muzzle was yanked off. Sherlock was shouting at John, but his head was getting fuzzy now. He forgotten all of the things he’d just made sure to know; the facts Sherlock would have wanted him to know. His clues.

“John, say something!” Sherlock called to him, sounding oddly emotional.

“I’m going to jump, Sherlock,” John breathed.

“Say again?” The tickle of curls against his face.

“I’m. Going. To. Jump.”

Mrs. Hudson returned with a blanket and Sherlock spent the rest of the time waiting for the ambulance to arrive petting John’s hair as though he were precious to him.

The last thing John saw as before the ambulance took him away was Sherlock hugging Mrs. Hudson tightly over a bloodstain on the stoop to 221B Baker St. He’d finally made it home. Some of the blood formed words, written clearly across the front step, and John strained in the stretcher’s straps to be able to see before the doors closed.

**_Sebastian Moran_ **

[CHAPTER NINE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/59950.html)


	9. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 9

_ “He isn’t coming for you, John. Even if he  _ could _find you after our last two moves, he’s not going to come for you. You’re just a Sub. You aren’t important.”_

_ “I’m not going to submit to you. Not any more.” _

_ “You saw how much Susan loved our session, didn’t you?” _

_ “Until you killed her you mean? Yes. She seemed ecstatic.” _

_ “An hour in the booth for your insolence. When you are done stewing for a bit, we’ll discuss this again.” _

_ “I’m not going to have sex with you  _ willingly, _just rape me to death and get it the fuck over with. I’m bored.” John knew he was just channeling Sherlock, but it was all he had left to cling to._

_ “Oh, but that won’t be any fun at all, John. You see: I’m not going to kill you like I’ve been killing the others. I’m going to leave you alive.” _

_ “I don’t believe you.” _

_ “You should. It’s more fitting this way. You will give in to me eventually, either out of an urge to feel subspace or exhaustion. When that happens I will leave you for Sherlock to find. Beaten. Broken. And with the knowledge that you wanted it in the end.” _

_ “What will that accomplish, assuming you can get that result in the first place?” _

_ “My dear, John, haven’t you figured it out yet? You’re his heart, and I’m going to burn you out of him.” _

XXXXXXXXXXX

John woke up in the hospital with a gasp: just a nightmare, just memories. Sebastian Moran couldn’t touch him anymore. Sherlock hadn’t even been able to get into his room for the first two weeks of his stay, there was no way Moran was getting in. 

They’d kept all Dominants out for the first two weeks after he’d woken up from subdrop as a part of his recovery. He was only allowed to be near Switches and Subs. Molly and Harry had come at first; Molly had been tossed out for trying to slip him a note from Sherlock and Harry had been tossed out by John. 

John already knew the worse news:

1. All the Alpha Submissives were dead. John had seen six killed before he’d submitted to Moran, who had _not_ been able to get him into subspace. Oh, John had floated, all right, but it hadn’t been anything pleasant. Not like the others. They had been blissful right up until he’d damaged them beyond repair. Most had died without a struggle, slipping from subspace to subdrop to death as smooth as silk. John may have gone down quiet, but it was a peaceful protest. 

2. Sherlock was trying to claim John as his Submissive and was being fought by John’s own doctor who felt John would never be able to have another healthy relationship again. John wasn’t even sure he wanted her to relent.

3. Sherlock and Lestrade were coming to visit today.

John took a deep breath when the nurse, Tasha (Omega Sub, 34) opened the door and gave him a questioning look. He nodded and she stepped aside. A very subdued Sherlock and Lestrade walked in. Sherlock sat himself down in the chair furthest from John and fiddled with his phone. 

“Hello, mate,” Lestrade stated, soft but warm.

“Hello… Greg.”

“He’s waiting on me, it’s nothing personal.” Lestrade reassured.

“Okay, then. Go.” John said with no small amount of anxiety.

“Sherlock wants you two to be together, but he doesn’t expect sex and he knows he’s not your Perfect Match. He’s afraid if you don’t have a Dom you’ll go back to Moran and he’ll kill you. He wants to take care of you, Dom you gently, no punishments beyond time outs, and he’s willing to work with me to learn how to be a proper Dom. He has been, in fact.”

“Moran wasn’t my Perfect Match, and how is that any different from how Sherlock and I were living before?”

Lestrade blinked and glanced back at Sherlock. 

“I thought you’d like it going back to the way it was before,” Sherlock explained, “With a few improvements in my behavior, perhaps?”

“I didn’t have any problems with your behavior. You had problems with mine. Remember?”

Sherlock winced.

“I… I never meant what I said, John. You were Moran’s Perfect Match and I needed to make a clean break…”

“I’m more than through with people telling me who my Perfect Match is, Sherlock, especially you,” John was proud of how steady his voice was, “Moran was _not_ my Perfect Match. I don’t care how he got me out of subdrop before; just thinking of the bastard put me there in the first place. He’s a giant mind-fuck and I don’t want to hear about him again. I’ll fucking safeword. Got it? The both of you?”

From Lestrade: “Yeah.” 

From Sherlock: “Your safeword would be?”

“Sherlock, that’s a bit premature, we talked about you assuming…” Lestrade started to argue.

“Cinnamon.” John interrupted. Sherlock blinked in confusion, but Lestrade winced and covered his face with his arm. “Informing, not using. Shouldn’t be a stink. Sherlock wouldn’t smell it anyway. Omega’s are immune.”

Greg lowered his arm, nodding a bit.

“No gags, then, either. Not possible without a safeword scent.” Lestrade informed Sherlock calmly.

“I’ve used balls before. You drop them when you want to stop.” John said with a shrug.

“Oh. Right then, this adding up, Sherlock?” Lestrade nudged him but he refused to look up from his phone.

“Why would he want to stop if…?”

“Sherlock, damn it, we’ve been over this. He’s got a bloody right to stop whenever he wants. If he has to take a leak or wants to fucking nap, it’s his body.”

“That rather defeats the purpose of submitting,” Sherlock argued. John tried to ignore how much that sounded like Moran.

“Sherlock. He’s got a _right._ Doesn’t mean he’ll ever use it. Just… try to remember the rules.”

“Fine.” Sherlock snipped.

“You could come a bit closer. I’m not diseased or anything. I’ve been tested,” John sighed.

Sherlock grinned, stood, and flopped himself down on the foot of John’s bed.

“Sherlock! Boundaries!”

“He invited me!”

“It’s fine!” John shouted over them, “Greg, I just… I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but short of a newspaper and some of his poo to rub his nose in, you’re not bloody likely to get anywhere. Can I just… can I talk to him alone?”

“Your doctor doesn’t…” Lestrade started to say.

“Doesn’t know what’s best for me!” John finished firmly.

Greg sighed, “Okay. All right. I’m here if you need me. Either of you.”

…

“I don’t like this, John. I don’t like not knowing where I stand with you. I know I’ve messed up and that it’s been pretty spectacular, but I don’t know how to fix it this time. Just… help me.”

“I don’t need my hand held. I don’t need to be swaddled like an infant. I just need to be me again, and outside of this bloody hospital.”

“Moran will come after you and you’ll…”

“Cinnamon.”

Sherlock bit his lip and John respected him for it.

“There’s a doctor. He contacted me. He specializes in helping Omega Subs who have been sexually assaulted outside of their bonding re-attach to their bondmates. I… I know we never bonded but I always felt we were and I believe you felt the same before you met… before.”

“I did. I thought you knew I did, but you… Sherlock, I fell. I fell and you did nothing to catch me. Why?”

“I was angry. Jealous. I saw how you jumped when he spoke and I realized you never really submitted to me. Not really. I felt I’d been made a joke of.”

“That’s good to have clarified, but I meant the pit. I fell backwards and you didn’t budge.”

“I’d have been useless to you shot.”

“I could have broken my neck. I had a concussion.”

“You could have been alive and tortured for months on end instead.”

“I _was_ alive and tortured for months on end.” 

“Yes, but at the time I didn’t know that would happen. I thought I could get you out before they up and vanished. I thought better dead of a broken neck than of…”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Thanks. One more thing… the no sex? I don’t understand, Sherlock, am I that repulsive to you? You want to keep me, but not have me, and not let me date others, why?”

“I don’t… I do… I…” Sherlock fiddled with his phone again.

“Sherlock?”

“I have to go,” Sherlock stood and headed for the door.

“What? No! Wait! Damn it, Sherlock, talk to me! Don’t leave me to fucking fall again!” Sherlock froze, hand on the doorknob, “Do you get what it does to me when you do this? Do you even realize you’re rejecting me? Hurting me?”

“You already rejected me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I…” Sherlock turned around and faced John, a look of disgust on his face, “I practically threw myself at you numerous times and you rejected me every time. You said you weren’t interested.”

“I said I wasn’t _gay_. I’m not. You’re decidedly neither Alpha nor Submissive. I should know- I’ve had my hand up your… _fuck_. _That_ was you trying to seduce me? Sherlock, think of what I am: I’m a Submissive. You told me _professional_. That’s what you got.”

“You’re also an Alpha. Mount me already.”

John’s entire body twitched, but he couldn’t obey that. Not yet.

“Cinnamon.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that as an order.”

“I’m not the kind of Alpha you’re used to.”

“Clearly not.”

“Would you even _want_ to be mounted?”

“No, not particularly.”

“Penetrated?”

“Well, yes, frequently if possible.”

John smirked, but Sherlock was as deadpan as always.

“How can this doctor help us?”

“He’d have us switch roles and re-locate our comfort zones. He believes the best subs are former doms and the best doms former subs… lowercase for all that. It’s some odd hokum theory of his.” 

“If you think he’s barmy, what’s the point?”

“John, look at us. _We’re_ barmy.”

“A bit, yeah,” John laughed. 

Sherlock returned to the bed and they sat in silence a bit, just enjoying each other’s presence, scent, and familiarity.

“He made me ask for it, Sherlock.”

“John, if it’s the last thing I do, I will make you _want_ it.”

John didn’t have the heart to tell Sherlock that was what he had meant. 

[CHAPTER TEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/60301.html)


	10. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 10

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock stated for what must have been the tenth time.

“Sherlock, please try to focus. This is for _John_ ,” Dr. Katinski (Beta Switch, 64) scolded lightly.

John stopped thrusting his hips in between Sherlock’s legs and raised his sweat soaked head to lever a glare at their sex therapist.

“I’m agreeing with Sherlock, this time. Neither of us is aroused. If anything, this is humiliating. A good workout, but humiliating, and I’m starting to chafe.”

“I could think of a hundred other things I’d rather you did to get into shape, John.” Sherlock snorted.

“Just not gardening,” John replied, flopping on the rubber floor mat beside Sherlock.

They had spent the morning in missionary position frotting against each other while maintaining eye contact; all while completely clothed in comfy exercise pants and t-shirts. That was it for over 30 minutes.

“I’m afraid neither of you are quite grasping the point of this exercise.”

“-In futility.” Sherlock added snidely.

“Sherlock, we are trying to give John the chance to become comfortable with your Omega body once more. He needs to feel safe, hence the clothes. He needs to feel secure in his Alpha status, hence the imagery of him penetrating you. He needs to feel dominant since he was traumatized while being forced to submit, hence your position on the bottom.”

“John is not the Dominant one, _I am_ , and he’s welcome to penetrate me whenever he wishes, in whatever position strikes his fancy. I, personally, can Dom quite easily from the bottom. You may even watch should that be agreeable with John.”

“Not so much, no,” John replied.

“We will eventually work up to that point, but only when you are both completely comfortable with both each other and myself.”

John didn’t think that was going to happen. He was rather more inclined to think Sherlock would eventually chase the man away in tears after a particularly nasty verbal repertoire. So far, the man appeared to be made of gelatin and simply wobbled whenever Sherlock snarked at him, then happily returned to his original lumpy self. John smirked at his thought of gelatin, but it was a bit cruel. It was hardly the man’s fault that he was dumpy and rather shapeless. He wasn’t even obese, just overweight and generally unattractive. It probably made him a good sex therapist. He neither attracted nor intimidated anyone sexually.

“Perhaps you’re right, Sherlock. We need to deviate from my usual work for you two. I was reading a bit on what defines gender and dynamic traits, but most studies conclude that even before sexual preferences manifest children are already displaying their tendencies. It makes it rather difficult to determine where ‘Alpha’ begins and ‘Dom’ ends.”

“That’s completely…” Sherlock started.

“Yes!” John interrupted, “I’ve thought that myself. I used to try and figure it out back when we lived at Baker St.”

“We still live there, you’re merely _residing_ here at Dr. Katinski’s inpatient facility,” Sherlock corrected, clearly working up to a foul temper. John ignored him.

“Very well, new exercise, then.” Katinski declared, clapping his hands enthusiastically. Sherlock and John both groaned. “Oh, relax. This one only requires your mind, paper, and pen.”

Sherlock, at least, looked relieved. Dr. Katinski directed them away from the mats and to a long table with some comfortable looking chairs. He took the head and John and Sherlock sat opposite each other to his right and left. He then directed them to make a list of what each thought was a trait for their own dynamic and gender, and their roles within their relationships, but not to compare notes as they were doing so. John found a few books to block Sherlock’s view and checked the surrounding area for mirrors. The doctor was amused but did not comment on John’s paranoid behavior. Perhaps he’d met Sherlock more times than John was aware of.

John began writing with a bit of apprehension, underlining the thoughts he felt were most important. What if his definitions didn’t line up with Sherlock’s? This might finally answer some of their concerns.

Alpha’s   
            Sire children  
            Protect bondmate and other Omega’s at all times  
            Penetrate during sex  
Submissive’s  
            Enjoy bondage, pain, and/or humiliation  
            Prefer to take care of the home, i.e. cleaning and cooking  
            Get pleasure from pleasing their bondmate.  
            Experience subspace.  
            ? 

They wrote out their lists and then silently swapped them. John blinked at Sherlock’s list and reminded himself not to roll his eyes.

Sherlock’s List

  1. Omega
    1. Contains sexual reproductive organs capable of reproduction via live birth
    2. Requires penetration to conceive and to receive fulfilling sexual stimulation
    3. Have higher I.Q.’s than Alpha’s
    4. Purpose traditionally is to care for the children in a home. I have the instincts to do so, but do not have the inclination. I would bear children for John if he wanted them, but require him to provide most of the care.
  2. Dominant
    1. Powerful
    2. Selfish
    3. Aroused by pain and/or obedience and/or humiliation of others.
    4. Purpose is to maintain discipline within the household by creating a system of rules and requirements for the submissive.



“Well,” The Katinski decreed once they had silently passed their papers to him, “This seems highly productive. Sherlock, did you disagree with anything John wrote?”

“Aside from his poor representation of cohesive thought pattern and the appalling lack of descriptive element?” Sherlock asked with a raised brow.

“Yes, aside from that?” Katinski was unmoved by his eyebrow.

“No. It all seems to fit… nicely.” Sherlock winced.

Puzzle pieces fitting. It was a euphemism for falling in love and creating a bond, but John and Sherlock’s pieces would never line up. They weren’t meant to. Their puzzle pieces were already bonded together. Male and Female. Alpha and Submissive. Omega and Dominant.

“Yes, well, clearly you two _do_ fit rather nicely. You seem to be right on the same page with each other. John, was there anything on Sherlock’s list you disagreed with?”

“Aside from him making me feel like I’m back in Uni with his fancy outline? No.”

“Please, John, that was hardly a fancy outline. If our session didn’t have a time constraint I could have gone into…”

“That will do, Sherlock, thank you, anything you two want to discuss?”

Glaring silence, John and Sherlock stared at each other blankly.

“From Sherlock’s list?” Katinski prodded.

“I think he’s asking us if we want children,” Sherlock smiled a bit.

“I think you were very clear on that already,” John straight-faced.

“John? Is there anything you’d like to tell Sherlock?” Katinski prodded.

“Nope, I think I was very clear on that, too.”

“Crystal.” Sherlock stated with his voice pitched lower than normal. John squirmed in his seat.

_ Oh,  _ now _I’m aroused._

“Very well,” Katinski stated acceptingly, “This poses some difficulty. Normally I would have you each switch to your opposite role, but your roles mix and meet at points. It isn’t even clear which of you would run the household since you both see John as protector and provider, but Sherlock as disciplinarian and limit setter. I think a bit of role-playing is more in tune for now. I haven’t seen you in your home before the disaster that befell John, so you’ll have to be honest with yourselves and each other. Lets go into the House, shall we?”

John made a face and Sherlock responded by looking skyward and shaking his head enthusiastically in disgust. They had been shown the ‘House’ earlier, and had requested to try out the sex therapy instead. That was what was more important, wasn’t it? Getting John to the point he could comfortably have D/s sexual relations again.

The House was a large room in Dr. Katinski’s private hospital that functioned as a kind of stage for those who needed to act out domestic scenes. Judging by the rubber sheets beneath the real ones, it was used to act them out fairly authentically. John had been instantly leery about it, but it seemed the decision was out of his hands. They stepped in and Sherlock immediately looked right while John looked left.

The reason Sherlock looked right was to avoid the sight of the baby bassinet at the foot of a double bed on the left side of the room. It held a rather alarmingly realistic looking and feeling doll baby. John had been informed oils could even be used to replicate the scent of a baby needing care. It was meant for _only_ Alpha Doms to hold while pretending to be their partner Omega Subs; an Omega Sub holding that doll would go into subdrop since it seemed so real but was clearly… not alive was the kindest way to put it. Even John had been a bit creeped out by it.

The reason John looked left was because there was a fully functioning kitchen on the right side of the ‘efficiency flat’. The last thing he wanted to be reminded of was his days cooking and cleaning for…

“Well, I was going to ask you both of you were comfortable behaving for me as you expect your rolls to pan out, but I can see that won’t be possible,” Katinsky told them gently, “We’ll just get rid of this doll for Sherlock’s sake, no need to traumatize both of you. Now then, I’d like you to behave as your partner normally would on an average day, focusing on the living areas, please.”

Sherlock headed to the kitchen with a sense of relief, John for the couch, and Katinski tucked the realistic doll away and pulled out a decidedly fake looking one. John pulled out his phone with one hand and grabbed a newspaper with the other.

“The T.V. is quite real, John, though the channels are all pre-recorded. You can flip that on if you want. There’s a channel guide just there on the coffee table.” Katinski informed as he placed himself in an unobtrusive chair in a corner of the ‘bedroom’. That cleared up John’s thoughts on what the bed was use for.

John glanced at the guide out of pure curiosity, blushed as he saw several porn listings, and put it back down to resume his pretend fiddling with the phone and paper.

“Any cases?” Sherlock asked from the kitchen as he began making tea for two. John was amazed he knew how.

“No, nothing. This entire city has gone dreadfully dull. I shall have to start working cold cases before I go mad with boredom.” John replied in his best Sherlock imitation, he even attempted to deepen his voice.

Sherlock snickered from his place in the kitchen and John stifled a grin, glad he could laugh at himself a bit. It seemed Sherlock might have done a bit of maturing over the years he was gone from John’s life.

“Perhaps you should play your violin, Sherlock?” Sherlock stated with another snicker, “It always helps you think.”

“Don’t be preposterous, John,” John stated with false hauteur, jumping on Sherlock’s use of his own name to speak to John, “Why would I need to think my way through this drivel? Why, even your miniscule mind could solve this –“ John flicked his fingers at the paper’s headline, “- this so called shocking B&E and still be home in time for tea.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t even have to leave the flat,” Sherlock panted, leaning back against the countertop and staring lustily at John while fanning himself dramatically, “with that massive intellect of yours.”

“I…” John was laughing openly now, “I’m usually sarcastic when I say that.”

“Are you? I hadn’t noticed. Let me try again. Ahem… I suppose you won’t even have to leave the flat,” Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, but smirked coquettishly, “with that _massive_ intellect of yours.”

“Don’t be… pfffft… Don’t be intentionally thick, John, I wouldn’t even have to leave the couch. Is that tea ready yet or are you being intentionally slow in other aspects, as well?” John managed to sneer before cracking up again.

Katinski smiled and made a few notes, but did not interrupt them otherwise.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

It was a week later that Katinski informed John, in a private sitting in his room at the practice, that Sherlock had been off the hormonal suppressants for a few weeks now.

“He’s probably going to go into heat in a week or so, John,” Katinski informed him gently, “but I want you to understand that you are under no pressure to be a part of it. Sherlock has the toys he needs and has been told to find a Beta who can stand guard at Baker St or a safe location to go through his heat if he does not feel safe there.”

“He meant for us to have gotten farther than we have,” John sighed in frustration. He had failed numerous times to make it into the kitchen area without becoming shaky and needing to stop. Sherlock had lost his temper about it twice now, though he was always apologetic afterwards.

“I think he thought nature would help things along, actually, and he might be correct, but this is still your call. How comfortable would you be in a situation with Sherlock’s instincts running rampant? 1-10, please, with 10 being completely comfortable?”

John hated this question. He heard it nearly every day. _John, how comfortable would you be kneeling in front of Sherlock today? 1-10, please, with 10 being completely comfortable?_

“9.” John lied, he hoped well.

“Would Sherlock agree with that assessment?”

John winced. Sherlock had corrected his answers to that question more times, and with more accuracy, than John was ready to admit.

“No.”

“Very well, then I’ll inform Sherlock…”

“I want to go home. To Baker St. Before Sherlock goes on heat. This… this isn’t working. I need to be back at Baker St. The fake kitchen is what’s doing me in. It isn’t _mine_.”

Dr. Katinski studied John quietly for several minutes before asking a question that threw John for an entirely different loop and explained why he was still forcibly committed.

“What did you mean when you told Sherlock you were going to jump?”

“What? Sorry?” John felt cold and wrapped his arms around himself.

“Do you need medicine?”

“No.”

“Sherlock?”

“I always need Sherlock, what do you mean I said I’d jump? I never said that. When did I say that?”

“When Sherlock found you in front of your flat he apparently Dom’d you into speaking in an attempt to keep you from sinking further into subdrop. It didn’t work, but you did say something rather revealing. You said, ‘I’m going to jump, Sherlock. I’m going to jump.’ What did you mean by that?”

“You think it was a threat of suicide. It wasn’t. I’m not… I tried in the compound and I couldn’t do it. I’m a coward. I can’t, and I don’t even want to. Not anymore.”

“I think cowards are the ones who _do_ slit their wrists, John, not the other way around. You would rather face life with the vague hope that it gets better than take the empty path of oblivion. Or perhaps you realized that you would rather face your friends and family with what you saw as shame, then run and hide from them in a grave. That takes a great deal of courage in my eyes.”

John took a deep breath in and out. He hadn’t thought of that. He also hadn’t missed how the doctor referred to it as what he _saw_ as shame.

“Do you think Sherlock is disgusted with me? For what I did?”

“No, but you should ask him yourself.”

John laughed a bit, “If I do that, he’ll tell me. Honestly, too.”

“Good. He’s a fool, but an honest one, and he doesn’t deserve you. If he says anything but that your fears are ill-kept, then I hope you tell him that.”

Dr. Katinski was waiting with expectation in his eyes and John knew full well what was coming. He was going to have to explain his comment.

“It’s… stupid. Sherlock probably deleted it, but it meant something to me all those years ago…”

_ They stood at the edge of a crime scene, Sherlock holding Mycroft’s umbrella over John’s figure as he carefully stitched up a laceration in his side. It was only a scratch, but it was deep enough to warrant his time with his emergency kit. Lestrade was talking to Mycroft, a fact John was paying rather more attention to than necessary, and Donovan was headed over to them with a head full of steam, Anderson hot on her heals and ready for a row. _

_ “You’re mad, you know that?” Donovan shouted at John. _

_ “What, me?” John blinked in surprise. He’d been rather focused on the sight of Mycroft leaning a bit closer to Lestrade than was proper in polite company. _

_ “Yeah, you. What exactly were you thinking? That bastard is a professional, The Freak said so, and I thought you took his word as effing holy?” _

_ “Now that’s…” John was struggling not to drop to his knees, and that said something about how upset she was since she usually didn’t phase him. _

_ “He’s killed twenty people on two continents. Do you remember that part? Twenty people. Knifed them up good. ‘Better than I could run a surgery’ you said. So answer me this,  _ stupid _, what were you thinking charging him like a fucking bull? You just do what The Freak says then? What kind of fucking Alpha_ are you _, anyway? He says ‘jump’ and you say ‘how high, sir?’ Are you a fucking_ Sub _or something?”_

_ “He didn’t tell me to do anything, and I was thinking ‘Sherlock’s in danger, better help my mate out’ is what I was thinking. I’m not a fucking Sub, I’m a friend. You could do with a few of those, unless I’m much mistaken, so why don’t you shut it before I’m not one of yours anymore.” _

“She was right, though, accept for the ‘how high’ part. When Sherlock needs something, he doesn’t order, and I don’t ask; I just do. I just jump,” John took a deep steadying breath before continuing, “Then Moriarty happened, and this time Sherlock jumped. He jumped off a fucking building to save me and his pack and… God, a part of me _died_ that day. I couldn’t protect him. He was my Omega and I couldn’t protect him. I had been so proud of being a good Sub and jumping when Sherlock needed me to, even if no one knew it but me, but when it counted I couldn’t Alpha-up and take care of him.”

“I hardly think it makes you less of an Alpha, John, circumstances being what they are.”

“I know that now, but at the time? It was why I went to… him… in the first place. I thought he could help me. I thought I could be better and if I saw Sherlock again in whatever comes after this life, then maybe he’d actually want me.”

“He did want you, despite thinking you were another Dom, though I suspect he knew unconciously. He was willing to Submit to you in the bedroom. That was why he tried so many very backwards and unsuccessful ways to seduce you. He still thinks he’s going to have to, in fact, which is probably why he wants your first time being intimate to be during an estrus cycle.

John laughed a bit, “Yeah, he did at that.”

“You realize what you’ve said, John? That you and Sherlock worked best together when you were being yourselves? Sherlock never asked, you just did.”

“You think… you think we’re trying to hard? Has all this been a waste of time?”

“Not a waste, no, but I doubt I can help you more than I have already. I think it’s time for you to jump, John.”

“I can go home?”

“Not exactly.”

The door opened and Sherlock stood there, dripping with sweat and looking desperately aroused. He was wearing only a small bath robe, which was doing nothing to hide his aching erection.

“John,” Sherlock growled, “ **present yourself.** ”

[CHAPTER ELEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/60476.html)


	11. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 11

_ Protect. Present. Mount. Breed! _

The first thing John did was disobey Sherlock. He jumped to his feet, bolted around him, shoved him forward, and slammed the door he’d been standing in front of. Sherlock snarled a warning, but it was worth it, and John emphasized his actions by shoving a chair under the doorknob and placing himself squarely in front of the door; now he was between the exit and his Omega. The only other person in the room was some Beta, and he was no threat.

_ Present. Mount. Breed! _

Sherlock’s scent hit John like a brick and he became so hard so fast it was painful. He groaned in needy agony and tugged the front of his trousers open before dropping to his knees. Nature took over and John’s insecurity on how an Alpha Sub should present himself vanished. John leaned back on his hands his hard Alpha cock bobbing in the air for Sherlock to inspect.

Sherlock walked around John, circling the Submissive offering himself up for his pleasure. John kept his pose for longer than he thought possible, past his arms shaking, past both feet falling asleep. His eyes were closed in complete submission and he felt his knot swell as the Omega’s scent told him exactly how ready he was to be bred.

“You will show me your worth. Kneel upright.” Sherlock growled.

Testing. Fantastic. When John swallowed Sherlock down, demonstrating his complete lack of a gag reflex after having serviced so many Alphas before, his panting Omega swore obscenely and bucked eagerly into his mouth. John instantly loved having his mouth fucked; that bastard had never done it and an Alpha really couldn’t due to their size. This was… this was what he had been waiting his entire adult life for. Sherlock fisting his hair and thrusting himself down his throat, possessing his body as surely as the man owned the rest of him. Whenever John managed a breath in, his sinuses were filled with the rich scent of Omega-in-heat. No other had ever smelled so utterly delicious. Sherlock’s familiar scents – sandalwood, a faint tint of rubbing alcohol, and dust from their home - mingled with the heady musk of Sherlock’s desire and filled him with a maddening urge to bury is face between those pert orbs and sample Sherlock’s essence directly.

Sherlock came down his throat with a strangled cry and John swallowed repeatedly, trying to wring another orgasm out of his lover, but Sherlock yanked his head off and shoved him sideways. John purposely sprawled, showing Sherlock his complacency.

_ See how I lie down for you? I am yours for the taking.  _

Sherlock looked maddened by the sight of John lying on the floor with his erection leaking pre-cum onto his sternum. He kicked John’s partially bent legs out from under him and sat – John sucked in his breath in anticipation - on his thighs. Oh, but this lovely creature wanted to _tease_. Fine. He would _earn_ the right to mount him.

John keened softly, not even thinking about it as he slowly increased the volume as Sherlock ran four long fingers up each side of his throbbing member. Sherlock avoided the moist spongy head and instead lowered his mouth to circle John’s partially swollen knot with his tongue.

_ See how I hold myself back for you? I would never leave you wanting. _

Sherlock’s tongue continued it’s teasing path up John’s Alpha cock, stroking around the stretched foreskin, flicking the frenulum, and circling the head as though it were a delectable treat.

_ Don’t thrust. Don’t thrust. Don’t thrust! Present! Present! THEN mount and breed. Wait. Wait until this lovely creature yields more than his body for you. Wait until you can claim him. _

Wet, tight, perfect heat.

While John had been gasping on the floor, holding his body still, Sherlock had leaned forward, grasped John’s needy erection, and commenced impaling himself backwards upon it. John was babbling incoherently, but Sherlock hardly cared what he was _saying_ , instead the brilliant detective was focused on what they both were feeling. Sherlock whimpered a bit in pain. Taking an Alpha cock was far different from taking a toy, and he’d clearly never used a toy quite as big as John’s dick was.

Sherlock didn’t take the knot yet. Not yet. John held his breath until he saw spots in front of his eyes, stopping himself from thrusting up and taking what they both so desperately needed. Control. This was about control. Some vague memory of Sherlock mentioning dominating him from any position crossed John’s mind and he instantly knew what Sherlock was waiting for.  

_ Mount! Breed! _

John flipped them over and grasped Sherlock’s legs, lifting his legs up onto John’s shoulders… and met his eyes. Minutes passed. Sherlock lay beneath him panting, holding his breath, and panting again, then his eyes focused. Cleared. Sherlock’s head turned to the side, but there was no submission in the lines of his face. This was an allowance. He was _allowing_ John this liberty with his body and soul. John took it greedily; extending canines that lay buried deep in his gums and sinking his teeth into the apex of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. The mark would scar horribly, and John’s saliva would sink into Sherlock’s scent glands there, marking him as bonded for life. Sherlock was his.

Still John held back, whimpering pleadingly as he licked the blood that trickled and oozed beneath his mouth.

“ **Knot me _._** ” Sherlock’s order, given in his sultry, deep Dom Voice, could not have sounded any sexier if he’d tried.

John buried his knot inside Sherlock’s tight body, reveling in the surge of warm lube that was forced out of his bondmate’s body as the thickest part of his cock pushed past the rings of muscle and sealed itself firmly inside Sherlock’s body. John was deep enough that he could feel the pulsating folds of Sherlock’s cervix; open just enough to accept John’s seed and pushing out fluids that his semen would swim up to reach their goal.

_ Breed!! _

John knot wasn’t completely swollen yet, so he decided to give his Omega the full treatment. He pulled out until only his cockhead remained – no small feat with fourteen inches of cock and a much smaller height than his bondmate – and thrust back into him completely.

Sherlock screamed, but the sound was far from pained. Sherlock flexed his nubile hips and eagerly met John thrust for thrust, growling and scratching his nails across the Submissive’s back.

“Mark me, _scar me_ ,” John pleaded, and Sherlock obliged by holding him still and pressing his own recessed teeth into John’s mark-spot. He tore extra hard at the skin, covering the lesser marks made by some other Omega Dom; that bond hadn’t taken anyway, their scents had never mingled.

John’s knot expanded completely and he was firmly ensconced in Sherlock’s body. Trapped in a cage that was so gilded he wished to remain there for the rest of his life.

“Oh, god, Sher, oh fuck, oh yes, oh _fucking hell, Sherlock!!_ ”

John’s hips rotated, grinding his knot into Sherlock’s prostate and stimulating his cervix with the soft tip of his prick. Sherlock was a wanton mess, moaning and writhing beneath John’s body as he dug his fingernails into John’s arsecheeks and rode him from beneath. John stared in fascination as _his Omega’s_ gorgeous pale skin flushed delicately, and was nearly undone by the site of blood from his bondmate mark dripping onto that alabaster figure beneath him. Sherlock must have felt it, because he released his grip on John to smear it across his chest and give his own nipples and decidedly wicked pinch. He must have enjoyed it because he reached up to give John’s an even _harder_ pinch.

John growled his approval and Sherlock’s mouth fell open in obvious excitement at his Submissive’s enjoyment of pain. He began to root around in the robe he had discarded and John briefly entertained thoughts of being bound by the sash before Sherlock produced his riding crop from within the folds.

“Oh, fuck, yes, _beat me_! Oh!”

Sherlock brought the crop down across John’s backside, only managing a medium strike at that angle, but John wasn’t opposed to lowering his legs so Sherlock could get better momentum. John straightened up and Sherlock lost focus as the angle caused his eyes to roll back in his head. John groaned through another of Sherlock’s orgasms, forcing himself to hold back _just a little bit longer_.

Sherlock set up a punishing pace with the riding crop, and it took John a moment to realize it was meant as instruction. He quickly adjusted his motions to match the crack of the crop. One hard crack of the crop and a draaaaag across his bruised flesh followed by three sharp snaps; Slow rooooll of John’s hips, fast jab, fast jab, fast jab, slow, fast, fast, fast, slow, fast, fast, fast; why was this familiar?

_ Oh, god my cock is waltzing with his prostate. You musical madman! _

Sherlock grinned maliciously when he saw John had figured out his tempo and quickly increased it.

“Accelerando!” Sherlock teased, before using his other hand to start pinching various sections of John’s excited flesh, “Counterpoint and...”

John was panting and gasping, his mind starting to become fuzzy and frantic, too much, too little, the pain/pleasure combination was driving him wild. His knot gave one last half-hearted spasm and then John was convulsing in pleasure, his seed spilling out to soak Sherlock’s spongy cervix, hopefully filling his belly with more than just come. John’s eyesight went white and brilliant and he screamed out his orgasm, finding himself in another place altogether. His body seemed to be floating, his ears were filled with a rushing sound, and every strike of the crop had become a point of echoing pleasure across his body.

“Deceptive cadence,” Sherlock growled, and answered John’s stillness with a roll of his hips and a slap of his bare hand against John’s bum.

John came plummeting out of subspace and back up again, his hips snapping of their own volition as he forced another orgasm out of both of them, Sherlock’s seed splattering his chest with the force of his pleasure. The crop faltered and fell so Sherlock gripped John’s arse again and they grinded against each other until a final wave of pleasure accosted them both.

Exhausted and utterly spent, John mustered the last of his strength to grasp Sherlock’s robe and tuck it beneath his head, making sure his precious Dom was comfortable before he collapsed against his shoulder. His knot would remain buried in his bondmate for at least ten minutes, and Sherlock’s belly was distended with John’s semen; John’s last cognizant thought was that he hoped he wasn’t pressing down on it too hard. Then Queen Mab scooped him up and he sighed into the blissful waves of subspace-induced euphoria.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Jooooohn!” Sherlock whinged from the sitting room, “I’m bored… and sore. I’m bored and sore John!”

“You’re just going to have to cope with it, Sherlock. Modern medicine can only do so much after three days of near-constant breeding,” John shouted from the kitchen.

John was scrubbing the kitchen floor. He was in a subfrenzy, he knew he was, but the knowledge did little good to him. He was riding the high of their bonding and was annoyingly desperate to please. Yesterday Lestrade had come to visit only to end up laughing hysterically as John served them tea. His amusement was not just from how John brought the tray in – partially crawling on his knees – but that he shoved the coffee table aside and slide the tray onto his back, going down on all fours in front of the sofa.

_ “I understand they don’t stay this way,” Sherlock sighed wistfully. _

_ “Nope, he’ll be back to his old self again soon enough. For now it’s all new and exciting.” Lestrade agreed. He was unhappily married to a Beta Switch, but he’d dated Omega’s before.  _

_ “Pity,” Sherlock replied, “I rather enjoy the fact that he’s making himself into the very sentient furniture he always claims he hates me seeing him as.” _

_ “Yes, well, do try to remember he’s a person, Sherlock,” Lestrade scolded, only half joking. _

_ “Of course I do. Furniture never comes that well endowed.” Sherlock winced and Lestrade laughed outloud.  _

John smiled at the memory. He was already drifting back towards his old self, and it was becoming a comfortably familiar pattern for him to wake up, tend to Sherlock, tell him off as needed, and then fall into bed with him. They’d been celebate for the last few days while Sherlock healed, but the man was nearly in the clear again. Really he was milking it a bit, he’d been hinting for sex not two hours ago.

“John,” Sherlock called again, his voice rather intense this time.

_ Back to wanting to get laid, are we? _

“Not yet, Sherlock, one more day. Doctor’s orders.”

“John, we have a problem.”

“What have you done to yourse…?” John froze after having walked around the corner and stared in terror at the sight of a man levering a gun at Sherlock’s head.

He was an Englishman with dark hair and a strong jaw, but though he seemed vaguely familiar John had no idea who he was. Doctor Katinski, who had been visiting daily since John’s release, was sitting in the armchair to John’s left, trembling visibly.

“How very good to see you again, John?” The man stated in a voice that immediately made John’s legs twitch, “What? No subservience? Has Sherlock sabotaged your training already?”

“You,” John stated in no amount of shock, and for the entire world he couldn’t remember the man’s rightful name. He sure as hell wasn’t going to call him Master anymore.

“Colonel Sabastian Moran, Moriarty’s right hand man, former collector of Alpha Submissives, and of late, card shark.” Sherlock stated firmly.

[CHAPTER TWELVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/60697.html)


	12. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 12

“Card shark?” John asked in surprise.

“Well, he has to make a living somehow, doesn’t he? The government seized all of his assets once his name and relative location were found. You’re a very wanted man, Moran, though not nearly as much as you were at the compound. Do you miss them?”

“Dreadfully, but it was necessary,” Moran replied calmly, “How did you know about the card games? I’ve been very discrete.”

“Your breast pocket has the outline of a deck of cards and some chemical stain. I recognize the chemical as one that fluoresces if the right kind of light shines upon it, but is otherwise barely visible. You’ve been using it to cheat at cards. Most likely by utilizing that pen light on your keychain. It’s been modified, I see.”

“Jim said you were brilliant, but he never mentioned how annoying you are.”

“He was a rare man. He managed to see past my inherent personality flaws.”

“That didn’t stop you from killing him.”

“I didn’t kill him- I assisted his suicide, there’s a difference.”

“Not to me. My lover is still just as dead.”

“An Omega? You’re with an omega? Sorry, _were_ with an Omega,” John stammered.

“What’s wrong with Omega’s?” Sherlock and Moran both questioned before glaring at each other.

“Well… nothing, except for the whole small… you know, I’m just going to shut up now.” John petered off.

“An excellent idea. You’ll be coming with me, John. We’ve unfinished business.”

“No he won’t.” Sherlock had produced his riding crop and seemed prepared to do battle with it… against a gun.

John moved on instinct, quickly placing himself in between Moran and his (possibly pregnant) bondmate. It brought him closer to Moran and in doing so he caught an unmistakable scent in the air. John groaned, hand reaching up to cover his nose, and wished fervently that his life had ended on the steps of 221B some months ago.

“John? What is it?”

“He can smell it, Sherlock, can you? Now, now, put down that crop. You don’t want to go to jail, do you?”

“You have a gun pointed on us. I hardly think my future incarceration is a concern, and especially not for what little damage I could do with a riding crop. Not that you _don’t_ have anything to fear. I have, after all, made it my business to make sure you spend the rest of your days firmly behind bars being made the some slow ex-addicts bitch.”

“A charming scenario, but one that won’t play out. Why don’t you tell him, Johnny?”

“Sher, put the crop down.”

“What, but he…? John, what is going…? Oh! Oh, bloody buggering hell!”

John nodded miserably, and Sherlock flopped down on the sofa, all color gone from his face. John whimpered in resignation, but still put himself between Sherlock and Moran.

“I still won’t let you hurt him.” John told Moran, forcing himself to speak through the lump in his throat.

“He isn’t going to want you anymore, you clod. You haven’t a choice. Pack a bag and let’s go.”

“Not with you here holding a gun on the man I love. Leave. I’ll follow.”

The stared each other down, and it was perhaps the fact that John was meeting his eyes for the first time that he relented. Moran lowered the gun, turned on his heal, and headed downstairs.

“I’ll call Lestrade. Have him come over. I’ll delay him as long as I can.”

“John… don’t…” John had never seen Sherlock look so vulnerable before.

“I’m sorry, god, I’m… I’m sorry, but you have to come with me. I can’t leave you alone. He might come back up.”

Sherlock rose shakily to his feet and followed John into their… into _Sherlock_ ’s bedroom. Sherlock flopped down on the bed and stared at the framed periodic table as though it held the answers to all the questions he wasn’t asking John. John grabbed his duffel from the hospital and started stuffing essentials into it after shooting a text to Lestrade. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

“I had no idea, you know that, don’t you? I never would have… not that I wouldn’t have wanted to because I did and I do… I wouldn’t have put you through this Sherlock.”

“I know.”

“He’s a sick bastard. I’ll figure something out. I’ll get a lawyer. My contract is void now and I won’t be signing another one.”

“Don’t.”

“Please, Sherlock, just…”

“John. Don’t.” Sherlock hadn’t taken his eyes off the wall yet. 

“I’ll come back to you. Wait for me? I don’t care what it takes. I’ll do it.”

“John, I think we both know that if that were true you wouldn’t be leaving in the first place,” Sherlock’s voice was entirely without inflection.

John stood there, crushed and knowing Sherlock was right on one level, but wrong on a completely different one, but not knowing how to explain that to him or if it even mattered. Eventually he bussed Sherlock’s head, breathing in his scent just in case it was the last time, and headed out to the sitting room . Lestrade arrived a few minutes later, breathless and alarmed.

“What the fuck do you mean, you’re leaving Sherlock?”

“Moran came for me, and…”

“I’m not letting you John,” Lestrade stated, stepping forward menacingly with his police issue cuffs in one hand, “He’s no good for you. He nearly killed you last time.”

John smiled softly, grateful for this even though it was impossible.

“Moran is pregnant, Greg. It’s mine.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

John slipped into the nondescript coup that had flashed its lights at him from down the street. He barely glanced at Moran as the man threw on the signal and headed into traffic. After about an hour of zig-zagging, driving in circles, and taking back roads, John was certain Moran was trying to get him lost. He was probably going to keep them in the relative area of Baker St, which boded ill for Sherlock. Little did Moran know, John was more familiar with the back streets of London than the main roads. He was also prepared. As he had expected Moran had not searched him when he’d slipped into the car; he only knew docile-heartbroken-won’t-look-you-in-the-face-John, not I’m-bound-to-Sherlock-and-mad-as-fuck-John. John was wearing two unlaced belts around his waste and had his gun slipped up the left-hand sleeve of his jacket. It was held barely stationary by the elastic wrist. Had it been a less loose fitting jacket it would be ridiculously obvious, but as it was he simply had to keep his arm down to keep notice away from it. It was a dangerous way to travel, but much less likely to cause notice even if he had been patted down. In an easy motion he could slip his hand into his coat sleeve, tug out the weapon and… what? Kill the mother of his child?

“Oh, quit sulking, Johnny. You’re going to be a papa. Isn’t that what all Alphas want? To show the world they have a worth beyond their muscles and large dicks? To fill in the gaps of their own lacking DNA by breeding their more intelligent counterparts?”

“You think so little of Alphas, so why? Why do this? What do you want with me?” John asked, finally.

“To complete Jim’s work; to burn the heart out of Sherlock. We talked about this, I believe? You are merely collateral damage, unimportant as anything except being the queen to Sherlock’s king, and this parasite inside of me is just the collateral.”

“Blackmailing me with my own child just to hurt Sherlock,” John shook his head sadly, “For what? You’ve risked your health, your child’s health, you’ve lost all the money you made from the Alpha Subs and when you were an assassin for Moriarty, you’ve gone so far as to stalk me for three years. What does this accomplish? It won’t bring him back.”

“If it our places were reversed, if it were Sherlock, wouldn’t you do the same?”

John thought a moment and realized what he was dealing with. Perfect Matches were more than must bondmates, they were soulmates, and once one died- or they were separated indefinitely- after bonding, the remaining pair would either wither and die or go completely insane. For this reason, and the intensely strong emotional bond formed, Perfect Matches were the stuff of fairy tales and history books. Sherlock’s very life was in danger because John had left with Moran, but if he had not done so his unborn child’s life would have been in danger. Other Alpha’s would notice an unbonded Omega walking about with child and want to take such a fertile creature as their own- after killing the offending offspring within so they could breed the Omega themselves during the resulting post-miscarriage/forced-abortion hormonal swing. Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran had been a Perfect Match.

“Alright, that makes a sick kind of sense, but why do it this way? Sherlock and I might still be dancing around each other if you two hadn’t played Perfect Match Maker and taunted us into addressing our feelings.”

“Don’t be more thick than your gender allows. Obviously we needed a way to hurt Sherlock and the cold bastard had nothing important to him besides his _work_.”

“What happens after the baby is born?” John asked, trying not to loose his temper.

“I’m in a bit of a spot there, actually, you see I originally intended to give the thing to you; a sort of ‘sorry you got caught in the crossfire’ parting gift, but now?”

“Now?” John prompted with a sense of dread and a sudden surge of ‘what did I do wrong?’ before he reminded himself his Dom was back at Baker St.

“Well, now I’ve had morning sickness and mood swings the last three weeks I’m more inclined to drown it.”

John stiffened in his seat, but he would be lying to himself if he thought this was a surprise. He was about to question Moran further when he saw the moment he was waiting for had come.

They were on a side street with no other vehicles, at a red light which had no traffic cameras. Oh, there was a CCTV camera monitoring a warehouse, but it wasn’t facing them. Good thing, because harming a pregnant Omega, no matter what they had done prior, was highly illegal. John pulled the gun from his sleeve with his left hand and Moran immediately reached for the weapon. John had depended on that, and his hand shot out with Alpha speed and strength to slam Moran’s head into the steering wheel. He pulled the hand break and stepped out of the car, vomiting as his biology protested harming his child’s carrier regardless of a lack of bond.

John quickly drug Moran into his own seat and used one belt to lash the man’s ankles together and the other to lash his wrists to the grab bar. He momentarily mourns his lack of foresight when he realizes he has nothing to gag the man with, then smiles wickedly and yanks off his socks. John has played at being a Dom long enough to learn how to be sadistic. One sock is stuffed into Moran’s mouth and the other he tears into one long strip to bind around his head and make a rather effective – and disgusting – gag. Moran is already retching, despite being unconscious, and John worries, but decides there is too much on the line to risk freeing him in any way. He needs Moran weak and helpless. John climes into the driver’s side, ignoring the fear in his stomach as he sees the CCTV camera has turned towards them at some point, and drives on as though nothing has happened. Even if they were pulled over no one would stop an Alpha from gagging and binding his pregnant Omega, they would assume it was for his safety or to keep him from annoying his Alpha, unless they got curious enough to ask to see a contract, which John would be unable to produce.

John pulled out his cell and risked a call while driving despite the urge to obey traffic laws neurotically to keep the baby safe.

“What the hell do you want?” a rough, cracking voice on the phone asked.

Early stages of emphysema, but the bastard was too tough to die just yet.

“I need a favor,” John states, making his voice as strong and authoritative as possible.

_ “Not I’d like you to grant me a favor, I need a favor.” _ The voice in John’s head sounded like Major Denton’s, and John was almost overcome with longing to have his mentor by his side again.

“What makes you think I’ll do anything for you? I haven’t…”

“It’s about your grandchild.”

“…”

“I’m bringing my bitch by. He’s a real fucking nutter, dad. He’s sworn to kill the cub. I can’t let that happen, but I’ve got an actual _decent_ Omega already bonded to me and desperate to spread his legs. Real clusterfuck, yeah?”

There was a loud bark of laughter and then, “You’re stringing on two Omega’s at once and planning on breeding them _both_? Junior, you’re not young enough for that kind of shit.”

“Don’t I know it, but the little slut was impossible to resist,” John winced in disgust at his own dialect, but it was all that would appeal to his father.

“So what do you want me to do about it?”

“My bondmate’s going to raise this whelp too, I just need to get it out of this fucking cunt’s oven first. I can’t leave the one I’ve got at home, though. I need someplace to stash the bitch where people aren’t going to go all soft on it just because it’s an Omega.”

“You want me to keep your breeder here until you can pick up the whelp?”

“Yeah, but mom and Harry can’t find out. You know what they’re like. They’ll let him loose and he’ll run off like the mad thing he is and off himself with my kid still inside.”

Silence for a moment, and John thought perhaps he had been too obscene and his father would realize it for a front. He knew he couldn’t lie to him in person, but over the phone…

“Alright, I think I can get the heat running in the barn pretty quickly. There’s still some brass rings in there we can chain it to. Your mother doesn’t need to know, and your sister doesn’t come around anymore.”

“I’ll be there in two hours.”

Then John took a deep breath, and waited for the next red light to text Sherlock, planning how he would let the man know he was texting under his own volition.

            **I have worked out our problem but will be held up for several days. Will return to Baker St when convenient. If inconvenient, will return anyway. – JW**

It didn’t make much sense, but Sherlock would understand his poor attempts at code. He didn’t hold his breath waiting for a reply.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The old farmhouse was in a poor state, especially with the new houses popping up around it from his father selling the farm to real estate when John and Harry had declined an interest in continuing the family business. John pulled up and parked behind the barn on the opposite side from the house. He trusted his father to divert his mother’s attention, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t come wandering out. Poor Hamish Watson, as bullheaded an Alpha Dom as any John had ever met, had fallen madly in love with one of the most willful Omega Subs John had ever had the honor of knowing. She had spent half of John’s life telling Hamish off and the other half being punished for it; all that being said, he had never once seen her cry and she had never let their father use physical punishments on them. She had, in fact, seemed as happy with the relationship as John’s father had seemed frustrated by it. They were inseparable, though it was no secret that Hamish blamed her for his son and daughter both turning out to be ‘pussy licking Subs’.

Hamish came round the corner with a sneer on his face, but John was used to that look.

“I thought you’d finally grown a pair, but here I find you hiding from your mum like some kind of naughty Sub child. You can relax, junior, she’s tied up at the moment.”

Probably literally, which John would have envied given his nerves and the propensity for bindings to calm him, but… well it was his mum.

“Not a visual I needed, dad, and I’m being careful for a reason. This bitch has actually killed people, dad, and lots of them. Once I get the whelp off of him I’m turning him into the police, but I can’t stress this enough: Mom and Harry can’t go near him or even hear him speak. He’s not a normal Omega. He’s an Omega Dom.”

“Fuck,” Hamish looked both disgusted and a bit afraid of Moran, who had awoken some time ago and was subtly testing his bonds, “There’s actually an opposite to you? Will the kid even be _worth_ keeping? What if it’s messed up like…”

“I’ve consulted a genealogist and have been assured our deviations are _not_ genetic,” John replied smoothly, glad he’d actually done that at one point so he wouldn’t be caught with one of his piss-poor lies.

“That’s good, then. He’s hurt Omega’s?”

“Loads of them, I’m afraid.”

“Shit. You know, son,” Hamish started, and John tried not to puff up at the term he hadn’t heard since his father found out John was a Sub, “I know we all have our time of sewing wild oats, but maybe it’s time you packed up the farm equipment and found a sturdy barn to house it in.”

“I have, dad, he was a one time thing and he _won’t_ be happening again. Far as I’m concerned he’s better off strung up by his neck,” John thought it was a bit scary how much that wasn’t a lie, “He needs to be gagged at all times, no option to use his Dom Voice on anyone. I mean, that, dad. He’s seriously powerful and fucking scary as shit. This guy has fucked up Doms, dad. More than he has Omegas, in fact.”

“How am I supposed to feed him if he’s gagged day and night?”

“I’ve thought of that. I stopped at a medical supply store on my way here and a friend gave me some equipment. He’s not going to like this, but I sure as hell am.”

John grinned maliciously, still forcing the anger at the situation to the front as he stepped forward and prepared to do something so unethical that he was certain he’d get the death penalty if this were ever discovered.

_ My child would live, but Sherlock will die if I get caught. Is a child I’ve never met and never intended to have even worth this? _

The answer was a resounding yes, though he had to blink back tears as he thought it. He pulled Moran roughly from the car, pressing on the goose egg on his head to remind him to behave. The concussed man’s legs went out from under him, but John just let him fall. He couldn’t afford a trick at this point and having someone grapple to catch you was an excellent way to throw him or her off balance and start your own attack. He tugged Moran upright once he had assessed where each limb was, then frog marched him into the barn. Nice new chains and manacles already waited, and John was relieved to see they were Irish cuffs and therefore unlikely to allow escape. His father locked them in place while John held Moran still.

“I need to prep this place to do some surgery. Can you bring out the folding table and a bunch of sheets and blankets? I’ll need rubbing alcohol and bleach as well. Oh, and two clean buckets, two clean bowls, a plastic sheet, and a bin bag.”

His father looked alarmed but nodded and provided everything John asked for. His term in Afghanistan had equipped John to turn any relatively sheltered space into an emergency surgery, and that’s what he did now. Once again accessing his training as a Dom, John did everything in Moran’s eyesight. By the time he was certain the surroundings were as sterile as they were going to get Moran was trembling in fear. He gave an attempt at escape, but was no match for two Alphas, even with Hamish’s old age.

“You’ve got a concussion, and even if you hadn’t it’s not safe to put you under with the baby and all. You’re going to be in a lot of pain. I’m giving you a mild sedative. It’s not good for the baby, but it’s going to have to do for now. Try to embrace unconsciousness, as they say; you’ll be needing it.”

With that statement made John pulled up his surgical mask, pulled on a pair of gloves, and picked up the scalpel. Moran was bound with an intricate knot weave across his upper and lower torso as well as chained spread eagle on the table. He could barely twitch as John made the first cut.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

John awoke in his hammock in the barn with Sherlock’s name on his lips and lay there, swinging slightly, with an acute sense of loss and no small amount of arousal. He could smell Omega nearby, but new instantly that it wasn’t _his_ Omega. That bond had been severed quite neatly, and he had no urge to renew it. The barn door opened and John slid from the hammock, gun clenched tightly in his hand.

“S’me,” John’s father whispered, “I only just slipped away. She figured it out, but I set her straight. She wanted to help me feed him, but I told her in no uncertain terms she wasn’t to set foot in here. I told her what you told me. Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine.”

 “You’re sure about this? Keeping him like this the whole time? His arms won’t work after seven months like that, probably not ever again.”

“I can live with that,” John stated firmly, but it did alarm him that he’d reached a level of cruelty even his father was uncomfortable with.

“Damn, son, but you’ve got it bad. I hope yours is less of a nuisance for you than your mother was for me. Especially if he’s got you risking a death sentence to protect him.”

John blinked in surprise and gave his father an assessing look. He hadn’t thought the man had worked it out, not that Sherlock was in danger from this man, hadn’t thought him intelligent enough to.

“It’s not the same as you and mom. He’s my Perfect Match.” John said instead of asking how is father had figured him out.

Hamish snorted, “Son, Nancy _is_ my Perfect Match. You think I’d take that shit from a Sub who wasn’t?”

John gave him an incredulous look, but his father was unmoved so he decided to go over the instructions for caring for Moran one final time. He would remain bound and gagged at all times. He could stand and move about the pen he was being kept in, but John and his father had reinforced it to make sure he couldn’t leave no matter how hard he tried. He had a cot to sleep on and a camp toilet to use (sitting down, of course). He was naked, cuffed with a triple chained bondage sleeve and the Irish cuffs over top, a set of manacles around his ankles with a chain extending to each other and the wall, and was now sporting a rather large ball gag with three smallish breathing holes. His father would come out here regularly during the day and once at night to pour a can of nutrients and anti-nausea medication into the feeding tube John had inserted into his stomach. For the next four days he would also get antibiotics to ward off infection. There was some delicate care to be done through the ball gag breathing hole in order to keep Moran’s mouth from drying out and infection from setting in, but otherwise Johns father really only had to care for him as much as he had his cattle.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Muck out his stall and throw him some hay. I’ve cared for animals before, you know.”

John had _not_ told his father about his abuse at Moran’s hands, but the longer he stayed around his father the more he thought the man new. Perhaps Sherlock was right and John really did wear every thought he had right on his face.

“Right. I’ve stayed as long as I can. I need to get home to Sherlock. I’ll be back once a month to look him over. Maybe strip off the bindings and scrub him thoroughly. You’ll dry him off after hosing him down? The heater can only do so much.”

Hamish rolled his eyes and let out a tirade of curses at John for Omega-ing him before shoving him out the door. Johns mother was outside and he froze in terror as Nancy met his eyes.

“That man done something horrible?” The greying woman looked at him with deep, doe eyes and firmly set lips. Her posture was perfect and her dress clean and new. She looked utterly out of place on the farm and always had. When she was younger people had joked that she was just feeding the chickens until prince charming could rescue her. They’d long since stopped joking and just smiled sadly at her as they passed by.

“Yes, mum.”

“You take care not to get caught now.”

“Yes, mum.”

“Quit being a stranger, too.”

“Yes, mum.”

“ _Yes, mum!”_ Hamish imitated in a loud falsetto.

John bussed his mother’s cheek and slid into Moran’s car. He’d have to ditch it somewhere and take the tube home, but in the meantime he utilized the familiar old country roads to drive as though death were on his heals.

He had been away from Sherlock too long. He needed the man like he needed air. His fingers ached from lacking those soft curls. His mouth could no longer remember the taste of his. His entire body felt naked for want of those long limbs wrapped tightly around his hips and shoulders. Sherlock’s scent existed as a soft waft about his own due to the bonding, but it only served to make John pause and look over his shoulder every once in a while as though his lover would appear there if he willed it hard enough. His head ached from trying to do so.

The only question that remained was; would he be welcome or would Sherlock embrace death over his infidelity? Because infidelity it was, even if it John hadn’t left Sherlock for Moran, he’d still left, and though he had texted Sherlock nearly hourly every day telling him he loved him John had yet to receive a single reply.

** Notes: **

Some images of the BDSM gear used in this chapter. More hardcore stuff to come ;D

http://www.amazon.com/KUB-Medium-Hamburg-Locking-Mechanism/dp/B00ADV1WWQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=hpc&ie=UTF8&qid=1363999112&sr=1-1&keywords=irish+cuffs

http://www.amazon.com/Extreme-Leather-Discrete-Invoices-Included/dp/B00B1N5J56/ref=sr_1_190?s=hpc&ie=UTF8&qid=1363997897&sr=1-190&keywords=bondage

http://www.amazon.com/Usefull-Portable-Camping-Walking-Traveling/dp/B0069ZRD28/ref=sr_1_5?s=hpc&ie=UTF8&qid=1363999139&sr=1-5&keywords=camp+toilet

http://www.amazon.com/Ultra-Breathable-Fantasy-Ball-Gag/dp/B00BLH6302/ref=sr_1_7?s=hpc&ie=UTF8&qid=1363999558&sr=1-7&keywords=ball+gag

[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/60949.html)


	13. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 13

John was certain that Lestrade would still be with Sherlock so he texted Stamford once he’d entered London proper. 

** PELOA. Sorry. Can’t help. - Stamford **

PELOA? Pack Emergency Leave Of Absence? What poor sod in one of Stamford’s packs had gotten him or her into enough of a tiff to require even their Beta’s take leave from work and life just to sit vigil with them?

“Oh, god, Sherlock, please don’t let it be you.”

John texted Donovan next, since he _knew_ she was in Sherlock’s pack no matter how fervently the berk denied it.

** Where the fuck are you? Get over here now. Furpile @ Baker St. – Donovan **

** I can’t. I need a shower. I won’t traumatize him more. – JW **

** My apt building. 12C. My pack Beta expecting you. - GL **

John emptied out and abandoned the car by pushing it into the Thames before jogging to the tube. From there he jogged the two blocks to Lestrade’s apt and knocked on 12C. A Beta female answered in her robe, gave him a questioning look and a sniff, but let him in with a motion to be quiet once he mentioned who he was. John saw toys scattered about and figured she was either a nanny or had some adopted kids who were asleep. He silently followed her to the bathroom and accepted the heavy-duty shower gel (guaranteed to remove all trace of hormones!) from her with a grateful smile. 

John scrubbed himself twice, running the stuff through his hair and even in between his toes and behind his ears. He wanted no trace of Moran on his body when he saw Sherlock again. 

To think that his fearless, stoic, confident Alpha Dom detective had required his entire pack to take a PELOA and form a furpile! John closed his eyes as he scrubbed and pictured the scene that would await him. The entire pack would gather in one room, likely the sitting room, build up a nest of mattresses, pillows, and blankets, and would comforting Sherlock together. All his Omega pack members – including Mycroft since he was family – would be holding him and keeping him out of topdrop as much as possible in the center of the fur pile. On the fringe, and occasionally dipping in to sleep or Alpha/Dom the Omega’s as needed, would be the Alpha’s of the pack; they would have a 24 hour rotating watch going to make sure no one hit subdrop (or in Sherlock’s case, topdrop) and to guard against intruders. Outside of that would be Stamford and any other Beta’s from Sherlock’s pack, who were blessedly incapable of becoming feral, like the Alpha’s and Omega’s. They would be in full Switch mode; giving the Alpha’s someone to take their frustrations out on, forcing the Omega’s to take care of themselves, cleaning house, fetching groceries and other necessities, and perhaps putting on DVD’s to break the tension. 

John whispered a thank you as he stepped out of the bathroom clad in the scrubs he’d had in a sealed bag with him for that purpose. He hadn’t touched his old clothes when he’d left the bathroom, having placed them in the bin before hand. He was wearing those silly booties for crime scenes on his feet, but he was taking a cab from here so it hardly mattered. The Beta made no comment and her face was a focused blank. John let himself out.

The entire entryway to 221B reeked of Alpha pheromones as the feral men and women inside sweated out warnings to anyone who might approach that they were guarding Omega’s and were willing to fight to the death. Underlying was something similar to the smell of a sickroom, and with a swallow of horror John recognized it as the scent of Omega(s) in severe emotional distress. Sherlock in topdrop? His Omega pack members in sympathetic subdrop? How deep? Would he even be able to apologize? To explain himself? 

John hesitated before slipping the key into the lock and was relieved to find it still worked. He stepped into the dimly lit room, whimpering pleadingly as the Alpha on guard growled a warning to him. He dropped to his knees once he shut and locked the door behind him, and clenched his arms behind his back. He looked around himself for Sherlock, annoyed at how long it took his eyes to adjust to the lighting in the room. John finally was able to perceive Sherlock on his knees on their mattress in the middle of the sitting room, facing the door, with Harry to his right and Molly to his left. He had his head turned into Harry’s neck and was taking in deep, slow breaths of his bondmate’s sister’s scent; it both comforted and hurt John that his love had needed a proxy of him to keep him sane. Harry and Molly both had a firm grip on one of Sherlock’s wrists, presumably to stop him from doing anything rash as a Dom in topdrop might hurt him or herself if they became depressed enough. Behind that group was Mycoft Holmes, who managed to look both aloof and accusing as he knelt behind Sherlock and possessively carded his fingers through his brother’s curls. 

A glance around the room revealed that the still growling Alpha was a shockingly beautiful woman he’d never met before. Dr. Katinski was keeping her in check by stroking her shoulders with an almost reverent look on his face. Lestrade was in Sherlock’s armchair looking groggy, Donovan was in John’s looking resentful, and Mrs. Hudson was knitting on the couch in the near darkness as though none of this was going on. John didn’t see Stamford anywhere, but he could hear someone running water and clinking dishes in the kitchen. 

The strange Alpha wasn’t going to let John near Sherlock so Sherlock would have to come to John. John carefully moved his shaking hands forward and undid his trousers, pulling out his decidedly limp member in order to present himself to Sherlock. 

“Sherlock?” John called softly. Sherlock stilled, holding his breath, but didn’t try to free himself from his pack’s grasp. “Sherlock I’m still yours, if you’ll have me. I haven’t been touched by anyone since you. I… I’m still your Submissive. I’m giving myself to you to do as you please.”

John inched forward enough so that he could lean back on his hands, presenting himself to Sherlock as his Dom. Sherlock pulled his face from Harry’s neck and Harry lifted her head to flash hurt/angry eyes at him in the dim lighting. Sherlock’s eyes were a careful blank, but he could see fresh tears well up in Harry’s eyes. He was going to have a fuck-ton of explaining to do, and hopefully she’d let him speak before pounding him into the ground. Omega or not, Harry had proved on more than one occasion that you didn’t need Alpha strength if you were trained in martial arts and well and truly pissed off. Molly was avoiding his gaze entirely.

“Moran?”

“Taken care of.”

“Dead.”

“Not yet.”

“The… the baby?” Sherlock’s voice cracked.

“Not your problem if you don’t want it to be.” It had taken a great deal for John to decide that. The baby would be fine in a Beta home; he might even find a family in some extended pack members and be able to see the child raised from afar. Sherlock had to come first. 

“If I do want it?”

“Yours. Ours. He’s out of the picture and will remain that way.”

_ Oh, god, please say you want my cub. Please, Sherlock. I don’t deserve it, but… _

Sherlock moved before John could finish his train of thought and he found himself pressed against the lower half of the door to 221B. Sherlock’s mouth latched onto his and they spent a frantic moment exploring each other’s mouths before Sherlock latched onto John’s matemark and sucked hard. John moaned an affirmative and mouthed Sherlock’s as well, though he wasn’t fool enough to suck on it. Sherlock had every right to subdue him, and John was sure he’d be covered in marks before the night let out. To prove his point, the strange Alpha stepped forward, leaned in, and breathed in John’s scent as it re-mingled with Sherlock’s. He felt hands tearing his shirt open and the woman sucked a mark into the lower half of John’s shoulder. Sherlock allowed it, which meant she was Sherlock’s pack. John whimpered his acknowledgement and welcomed her into his own by lifting his head to nuzzle her jaw when she allowed it. 

Suddenly hands were everywhere and John and Sherlock were stripped of their clothes. John was being accosted at all sides by pack members subduing him one after another, using mouth and occasionally Alpha cock to smear their scent across him; he was once more grateful that Beta’s had no such urges, though a glance to the side revealed the Alpha Dom woman pressing Dr. Katinski down into a pile of pillows with amorous intent. That was something he did _not_ need to see, so he turned his attention back to the one who deserved it most. 

Sherlock and he were now fully undressed and nearly everyone had retreated to their own furpile or kiff. Lestrade had remained, as pack Alpha, and was holding Sherlock back from impaling himself on John before his body was ready. Sherlock alternated between growling angrily at Lestrade’s interference and whimpering frantically for John to penetrate him. John latched onto one of Sherlock’s nipples and suckled teasingly while gently fondling Sherlock’s limp penis. Once his love began to respond he leaned up and licked their matemark again and was rewarded with a groan of true desire. Sherlock was well and truly out of topdrop now and John was well on his way to feeling like himself as well. 

Sherlock, finally freed of Lestrade’s grip on his hips, had begun to rub his cleft against the tip of John’s cock, quickly bringing him from half-mast to full as he felt the slickness there.

“I need to taste you, Sher. I need your scent all over me, inside me. Please let me eat you, love?”

Sherlock groaned out an affirmative and dropped backwards onto the floor, his lovely body on full display on the mess of blankets and pillows that formed the nest their furpile had been on. John knew said furpile had turned into frenzy around them, but he couldn’t spare it a glance at the moment. His focus was entirely on Sherlock and the alabaster skin that practically glowed in the darkened room.

“I was dying for you, Sher, I hated every centimeter between us and I was going _mad._ I lost myself, Sher, help me? Please? _”_

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but then changed his mind and gave John a cocky smirk as he grasped himself under his knees, the dim light seeping in from the kitchen reflecting off his slick bum. John wasted no time burying his face between Sherlock’s cheeks and lapping greedily at his exposed pucker. There was nothing more satisfying in that moment than the bliss he felt as Sherlock’s musky scent spread itself across his face. Sherlock was moaning and pressing down against Johns invading tongue, which was enough excuse, as John had ever needed to press it into the already tented and twitching hole. He circled the inner muscle twice before pulling away and grasping Sherlock’s prick in one hand. He reverently tugged back the foreskin before circling the tip in mirror to his previous actions, but when he swallowed him down Sherlock grasped his hair and pulled himself out of the back of John’s throat with an angry growl.

“I _will_ be coming with you knotted inside me!” Sherlock ordered and John pounced on him eagerly.

Sherlock flipped him with a wild growl and they bumped into another couple, which led to them rolling the other way instead. They were now just beneath the couch and John had an awkward moment of eye contact with Mrs. Hudson, who smiled cheerily and went back to her knitting. Then Sherlock thoroughly distracted him by sucking on the head of his cock as though it were a lolly. John’s eyes rolled back in his head, so rarely had this been done to him, and he babbled praises at the top of his lungs. Sherlock took the huge tip in as far back as he could and waggled his tongue against John’s frenulum. John held himself back from bucking with every ounce of strength he had and was rewarded with Sherlock giving him a positively filthy look before coming off with an audible pop.

“You wait here very, very quietly and I will bring you a present.” John’s cock twitched and Sherlock chuckled as he stood up and weaved his way through the tangled limbs of their pack members towards their bedroom. 

The room was filled with the various sounds of their pack, though not all of it was sexual. Lestrade and Mycroft were fucking like rabbits, Mycroft pinned down in Sherlock’s chair while Lestrade kneeled on the mattress he’d pulled it up against. John had glanced over in time to see Lestrade make a particularly hard thrust, still, and then begin rotating his hips, his gluts and back muscles flexing alluringly in what was undoubtedly a knotting. That surprised John, since most unofficial couples never knotted each other outside of the uncontrolled passions of heat. Molly and Harry were going at each other’s quims with a fervor that would have been mesmerizing had one of them not been his sister. Stamford and Donovan were cuddled together in a completely chaste embrace with Sally rubbing the larger Beta’s back, soothing herself far more than she soothed him. Mrs. Hudson had stopped knitting and was watching Harry and Molly with one finger resting on her cheek and both eyebrows raised appreciatively. The new Alpha Dom and Katinski were spooning, post-coital, their voices soft as they whispered sweet nothings into each other’s ears. 

Sherlock returned with a basket and… _oh_ _fuck yes!_

John sat up and stared in bliss as Sherlock attached a bar across the entryway to 221B, leaving the door wide open, and directed John to grasp the bar. John stood beneath it, his arms raised and spread, and a spreader bar was locked around his ankles. Sherlock walked around and used the kitchen exit to appear behind John, his basket draped over one arm like a filthy gender-bent red riding hood. 

“You need a red hood.”

“Actually, I think you’re the one who needs a hood,” Sherlock produced one and John’s world went black as the buckle was fastened around his neck. The lovely thing had been soaked in Sherlock’s own aroused scent and he moaned appreciatively even as he swallowed at the feel of something being wrapped around his throat.

“I want a collar, Sherlock. Your collar.”

“You’ll have one soon, John,” Sherlock soothed, his voice suddenly tender. John felt something leather run up his ribcage and sucked in his breath, but Sherlock put whatever it was down and John felt the silky slide of Japanese rope.

Sherlock began a knot weaving that ran beneath his armpits several times, behind his head, and crisscrossed up both arms where they wrapped his hands like mittens and lashed him to the support bar. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s torso and toyed with his nipples until they were hard before placing nipple suckers on them. John jerked his shoulders backward at the taut feel and sighed happily as his bonds protested even that small movement. 

A finger drenched in lubricant (Sherlock’s? Artificial?) stroked John’s entrance before slipping inside and stroking in and out. John moaned at the feel of his prostate being stimulated and marveled at his lack of fear despite years of nightmares about another man touching this same spot.

“You really trust me, don’t you? Your body could take an Omega cock, you know. Would you like that, John?”

“Yes.” He admitted hoarsely, to his own shock. 

Sherlock slipped a second finger in and proceeded to stretch John, presumably for something larger. John was panting and fucking himself back on three of Sherlock’s fingers before they were taken away from him. He moaned their loss only to gasp and stiffen in alarm as he felt Sherlock’s cockhead press at his cleft.

“Shhhhh, relax, love. It’s just me, your very own consulting detective. Open up for me, darling.” 

Sherlock continued to speak to John as he pushed slowly past the first muscle, showing unbelievable control, before finally easing his way completely inside John’s body. John was sobbing at that point, but not from any kind of fear or sadness. He had never in his entire life felt a lover inside of him. Sherlock was filling him up inside and he found himself loving the full, stretched feeling. Sherlock’s cock twitched and throbbed inside of him, and John felt the urge for movement nearly overcome him. 

“Sher…” He breathed, and Sherlock moved.

John was soon being rocked back and forth with each of Sherlock’s sharp thrusts, his body impaled over and again on Sherlock’s nine inch, slender, uncut, beautifully curved member. He’d never insult an Omega cock again. It might be smaller than his, but it was perfect inside of him. No Alpha could do what Sherlock honored him with now. 

“John… you’re too tight… I can’t… Mmmmm,” Sherlock flooded his body with hot semen and John chanted his name like a mantra. 

Sherlock held still a moment before slipping free, having no knot to tie him into John. Something cold, slick, and bumpy quickly filled John up again, though it was far smaller in both directions than Sherlock was. 

“This is called a butt plug, John. Have you ever heard of one?”

John shook his head within the sweet smelling hood. He was hard and wanting, a cold draft informing him of how wet the tip of his cock was. He couldn’t look down to check, but he was certain his knot was ready to explode just by how very tightly wound his entire body felt. 

Sherlock continued, “They’re made for Alpha’s who like to get fucked by Omega’s and Beta’s. It will hold my come inside of you. Do you like that idea, John? Do you like my juices filling your body?

“Yes,” John croaked, though his medical mind wondered where they’d _go._ He had no womb to absorb them. They’d probably just leak back out once Sherlock allowed him to remove the… what was it called? Plug? 

With no warning whatsoever Sherlock brought a leather paddle down on John’s buttocks, tearing a scream from him. The plug in John’s bum shifted and rubbed his prostate beautifully, causing spots to flair out inside John’s dark sanctuary.

“Damn, Sherlock, you don’t build up, do you?” Lestrade’s voice called from somewhere.

“My brother is decidedly unmarked, Gregory, you might want to take care of that little discrepancy before you question my methods.” Sherlock goaded.

“Hmmm, I’m sure Sherlock could spare a flogger or two,” Mycroft teased as well.

“Bloody hell, am I the Alpha or aren’t I? Fine! Sherlock, toss me that red rubber one.” John heard Sherlock route around the basket and before chucking something under John’s arm. 

Distraction past, Sherlock resumed his spanking as if there had been no interruption and John was soon back to sobbing, tears soaking the hood and snot running unchecked as Sherlock moved down his thighs and calves before grasping the spreader bar and taking John’s feet out from under him to spank the bottom of each foot once. John dangled for a minute or two, moaning at the feel of the rope shifting and burning with the new weight distribution. It was cutting off circulation now, but not enough to cause damage. Sherlock reverently kissed the back of each of his knees before helping him get his feet back under him.

“You’re so sexy like this,” Sherlock purred in his ear as he stood up, “Such beautiful strength. Do you have any idea what it looks like when your muscles jump under my hand?”

To emphasize his point Sherlock gave John a resounding smack with his bare hand. John howled approval and Sherlock gave him a few more for good measure before stepping back. The basket rustled and the feel of a metal pinwheel rolling across his bruised bottom made him arch as far as his body would allow. 

“Are you trying to get away from me?”

“No! Oh, fuck!” 

Sherlock ran the pinwheel around a few more times, circling the protruding end of the buttplug teasingly, before leaning forward and biting John’s arsecheek _hard_. John nearly toppled over the edge.

“Close, Sher, fuck I’ll come if you do that again!”

“Really? Hmmmm, tempting, but I do recall promising you’d be inside of me.”

John felt fabric slide around his hips and laces begin to be drawn at his back. He was being placed in a waist cincher? Odd, Sherlock had never mentioned an interest in putting him in drag before. More to the point, he was starting to panic. Moran had put him in a corset and stiletto heals for a punishment; hot pink ones. It had started out humiliating and a bit funny, but ended up horrific, as he hadn’t been allowed out of them for three days straight. By the time they cut the shoes off of his feet they had been caked in blood, swollen, his toes black and blue, and he hadn’t been able to lower his heals to the floor for three hours even after soaking in a tub.

“Do you want it off?” Sherlock asked softy, his hand stroking the tight, soft, leather around his waste.

_ How did he know? _ John’s erection certainly hadn’t wilted, not with the scent of arousal the hood had been soaked in.

“No… it’s just… what color is it?”

“Black. Do you want the hood off?”

“Yeah… I think I’d better.”

Sherlock actually slipped in between John’s legs, over the spreader bar, and came up at the front, so the first thing John saw was his pupil-blown green eyes looking at him with such love and tenderness that John relaxed immediately. He stared at the freckle in Sherlock’s eye, a mark as unique as a thumbprint, and reminded himself how singularly perfect this man was- even if he did drive him spare at times. John didn’t even look down at the cincher until after Sherlock had gently cleaned his face and placed a loving kiss on his lips. 

“Okay,” John breathed, “Okay, I’m fine. Better than fine. You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock stated with a roll of his eyes. He bent down to root through the basket again and John caught a glimpse of the room. He’d been aware of the sounds of Lestrade flogging Mycroft, but he hadn’t been paying them any attention. Now he could see Mycroft draped across the same chair as though fainted, but the noises of appreciation he was making as Lestrade brought the flog down on his bright red skin spoke otherwise. His face was completely relaxed in a way John had never seen, as though he’d waited _months_ just to feel the flogger crack across his chest, abdomen, shoulders, and thighs. His cock was hard and leaking, and as John watched in fascination Lestrade dropped the flogger and dropped to his knees to run his hands over Mycroft’s twitching body. 

John’s voyeurism was cut short as Sherlock stood with a smirk on his face and showed John the straps he had been retrieving. They were straps like you would find on suitcases, the adjustable kind, and he clipped one end to a reinforced loop on the waist cincher and the other end into an eyehook in the door jam. Sherlock had placed those eyehooks in various places around the flat before John had returned from the hospital. John had wondered about them, but had been too excited to ask. Sherlock repeated the maneuver on John’s other side and then tightened the adjustable straps so John’s hips could barely move at all.

“Now I’m going to fuck myself on that huge cock of yours. What do you have to say to that, John?”

“I’m the luckiest bastard on the planet.”

Sherlock smirked at John’s statement, “You aren’t a bastard. Your father has the same disconnected earlobes and cleft chin you have. Your paternity is assured.” Sherlock turned around and rubbed his arse against John’s cock suggestively

“Git. You just can’t resist… _fuck_!” John’s eyes rolled back into his head as Sherlock gripped John’s cock and then pressed himself back on it.

“No, mmmm, I _can’t_ resist fucking you.” Sherlock agreed, and reached back to grip the back of John’s head with both hands. 

Sherlock began a slow and torturous pace, his body never taking John’s throbbing knot in. John was begging in seconds.

“Please, Sher, please, I’ll do anything, pleaseohSirohpleaseohpleaseohfucking _please_!”

“Please what, John? Communication is key, as our sex therapist would say.”

“Please take my knot!”

“Do you deserve to knot me?”

John wasn’t able to actually think enough to answer that.

“Please!”

“Yes or no?”

“Fuck! No! Please!!”

“Luckily for you, I’m a very forgiving person.”

Sherlock adjusted his grip to be on John’s hips, bent slightly, and thrust himself back on John hard and John’s knot was suddenly enveloped in tight, wet, _heat!_

“OHFUCKOHFUCKOHFUCKOHFUCK!!” 

John was certain his orgasms would never end. They pounded through his body, one immediately after another until he simply went limp, his face buried against Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing in his Omega’s scent. Sherlock’s body was still clenching out one final orgasm and the panting detective let out a groan through his blissful release.

“I love you so fucking much.” John panted, licking Sherlock’s matemark again.

“I love you fucking me so much.” Sherlock affirmed.

“Git.”

“Blogger.”

“Your blogger.”

“Mmmm, yes. Mine. Forever.”

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[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/61204.html)

  



	14. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 14

All of his possible errors were floating around in John’s head by the time he opened his eyes. Most of the pack had gone home in the night, but Dr. Katinski and his Alpha Dom lover were still snuggled up in the depths of dreamland. John made tea and toast and gently woke Sherlock, whispering that he needed to speak to him in private.

They took to the upper bedroom and, since it was now completely bare, sat down on the floor to break their fast with as little decorum as John had ever seen Sherlock use. John carefully explained what he’d done and what he intended, and waited with baited breath for Sherlock to pull out the threads of his plan and lay the whole mess bare.

“Well, I’d already deduced he was with your parents, and that you’d done something to him you regretted, but this is a surprise. You intend to employ Stockholm Syndrome on him the way he did you to convince him to work with you instead of against.”

John winced, he hadn’t thought of that comparison, but Sherlock was unfazed by his discomfort; he probably hadn’t noted it since he was so deep in thought, sipping his tea and nibbling at his toast.

“It was that or cut out his tongue, which would have far more medical risks than what I’ve done so far,” John stated with a sigh, “He’s a dangerous man, Sherlock.”

“What if he forms blood clots in his arms before you can manage to break him?”

John sighed and leaned back against the wall of his old room, “It’s very likely we’ll loose our baby, then.”

Sherlock flinched this time, and John felt a bit bad for manipulating his emotions, even unintentionally, but he had determined to refer to the baby as theirs unless Sherlock showed an inclination to reject it. 

“This is how I see it playing out, and as you know a great deal of deductive reasoning isn’t just seeing how something that is past had happened, but all the possible roads it could take from here on out.”

John nodded, and leaned forward in anticipation.

“Moran will first attempt escape, has probably already done so. When that fails he will attempt murder in the person of your father, or better your mother if she breaks the rules you two have set and goes near him, which is likely given that you have described her as rebellious. If those two first fail he will attempt to abort the child himself. If that is stopped he will fall into topdrop and begin harming himself. The last two are your main enemies, because he is subdued for the moment and can’t commit the atrocities he would want to do as easily. Harming the child or himself, however, is an easily attainable goal.”

John nodded, “My father’s aware to look out for them, but there’s only so much time he can spend in the barn. He’s a hard man; he won’t be moved to any kind of tenderness. Moran will get only slaps and derision from him. After enough time…”

“After enough time an ounce of affection from you will be like water to a parched man,” There was no small amount of jealousy in Sherlock’s voice.

“Yes,” John replied, “but not in the way you think, Sher. I’m going to lavish the attention on his belly, not on him.”

Sherlock leaned back and stretched himself across the floor of the room, apparently watching the dust motes dance in the morning light. 

“It has only a slim chance of working, but I see little else that will. You will have to go running to him soon, if not today then tomorrow, and I think you should let slip your thoughts on cutting out his tongue. It would be effective to remind him that worse could happen.”

John nodded but worried at the bitterness in Sherlock’s voice. His fears were not unfounded.

XXXXXXX

It actually took nearly two weeks before Moran attempted to harm the child, but that only meant John had that long to work himself into a state of near constant anxiety. There were no cases breaking, either, and his work at the surgery wasn’t nearly distracting enough. When he finally got the call from his father, it was almost a relief.

“Bitch tried jumping off the cot and landing on his arse. I’ve tied him to the post.”

“I’ll be there in a few hours.”

John texted Sherlock and Lestrade that he’d be away and hurried out the door. 

XXXXXXXX

Moran was miserable when he got there. His arms lashed to the post behind him meant he was forced to stand in the middle of the barn, naked as the day he was born, with none of the minimal comforts of his stall. He had pissed all over himself and was looking ashamed for it.

John stepped into the barn and, like his father, did not acknowledge Moran accept to attend to him. He was cattle, nothing more. John had brought a pail of warm water with him from the house and he tossed it on Moran to clean him up a bit. Then he squatted down, careful to keep his knees from touching the mess below Moran’s bound ankles, and pressed a gentle kiss to his abdomen.

“Hello, little one. I know you’ve been suffering a bit, but I wanted you to know how much we love you and are proud of what you’re surviving. I’ve been thinking of names, but I can’t decide. We won’t know if you’re a girl or a boy until you’re born, for all I know there’s two or more of you in there, but we’ll sort it all out later.” 

John kissed him again, brushed gentle fingers across the same spot, and noted how Moran shivered. Then he stood, his face a careful blank.

“You try that again and I’ll cut your tongue out and strap you down to that cot for the rest of the pregnancy. You live because my child does. Don’t forget that. You be a good little bitch and whelp my pup and I’ll let you go after. I won’t even turn you into the police, just ship you off to another continent of your choice and you can find your way from there on out. If you cooperate I’ll even let you out of the bonds on your arms before hand, so you might get to use them again someday.”

Moran looked hungry at that last bit. So his arms being bound were already torture, John thought they might be. His hands were neither gentle nor harsh as he unbound Moran’s strapped arms and led him back to the pen. His father held a gun on Moran while John removed the restraints and let him stretch out. He couldn’t move them forward far without screaming in pain. 

“That’s only going to get worse the longer you do this. I won’t be letting you out again until I’m certain I have your complete attention. Don’t make me hurt you more than necessary.”

Moran dropped to his knees, eyes pleading, and John gave him a firm nod of approval before picking up some supplies, including massage oil. He scrubbed Moran down with water and soap, hosed him off, dried him, and then massaged his shoulders and arms. Moran moaned in a mixture of pain and pleasure and was soon showing signs of arousal. If little over a week of little human contact and no kindness did this to him it wouldn’t take long before he was compliant. It probably helped that he saw John as a sex object in the first place.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take care of that for you,” John nodded at Moran’s erection, “but I’m a married man.”

Moran looked defiantly uninterested in what John had hinted, turning his head away disdainfully. Not broken yet, no, but when John pulled out the bindings for his arms he began to weep and tried to bring his arms forward to form clasped hands. It took three tries before he managed it and John’s medical professional was screaming at how unhealthy this was. His Alpha side was completely disgusted and he headed outside with a stiff back to be thoroughly sick in the yard.

XXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was a mess when John got back, fiercely jealous and furious at John for ‘cuckholding him’ with Moran. He strapped John to a chair and made him watch science DVD’s that Sherlock had somewhere as punishment. Five hours later and John sympathy for Moran, but he served it without complaint. Unfortunately, while John was accepting of the punishment, Sherlock was not and hit topdrop badly afterwards. John held him, petting his curls, as Sherlock alternated between sobbing out apologies for punishing John unjustly and screaming at him for betraying him. John drew the line at Sherlock fetching his crop with the intention of beating himself with it and pinned his Dom down as gently as possible to ride out the guilt and depression until this beautiful man could make peace with it all. 

XXXXXXXXX

Sherlock met John’s subsequent trips to the farm, which were increasing in frequency, with equal parts jealousy and guilt, and it only got worse when they confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sherlock hadn’t gotten pregnant on his first heat with John. Now the man was feeling inadequate and even went so far as to accuse John of purposely impregnating Moran because he had secretly determined Sherlock was barren. Eventually it got bad enough for John to call in Lestrade, who tossed Sherlock over his knees and paddled him until he was a sobbing mess.

“He’ll be fine,” Lestrade insisted as John sat in the chair and trembled, feeling sick with guilt, “Look, this is normal. Omega’s and Alpha’s alike go thru this sort of thing; especially when fertility’s an issue. He’ll get pregnant eventually and forget he was ever this worried about it. For now he needs the punishment to feel like he’s atoned.”

“But he hasn’t done anything _wrong_.” John insisted, though punishing John really wasn’t due.

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel guilty. Haven’t you ever wanted punishment for something stupid?”

John recalled the first time he’d realized he was feeling Sub tendencies like his sister. He’d accidentally broken something of his mothers, which she had insisted hadn’t been important to her, he’d wept over it, and then placed himself in a corner for an hour when his mother declined to punish him. She’d given him a worried look but hadn’t interfered.

“Yeah, okay. Fine. So just put some lotion on his bum and tell him I love him?”

“Yeah, that’s about it. Give me a sec, too.”

Lestrade went over to where Sherlock was still kneeling on the floor, head bowed and face shamed with his trousers around his ankles, and pulled him upright. He tugged Sherlock’s pants up and hugged him tightly, ignoring his struggle to get loose and scathing remarks.

“I’m only doing this because I care. Get your head on straight, yeah? John needs you to be strong for him. You’re a good Dom, and fertile Omega, and you’ll get pregnant eventually. Next heat. Just quit beating yourself up or I’ll come over and do it for you.”

Sherlock looked significantly calmed as Lestrade took his leave.

They made love slowly for the first time after that, and it was no less passionate for being vanilla. Sherlock simply grabbed John’s hand, tugged him to the bedroom, pulled off both their clothes, and pressed him into the mattress with a tender hand. What followed was almost worshipful as both men spent hours simply touching, kissing, and tasting. 

When passion overcame them Sherlock slid himself down on John’s hard shaft, not taking the knot in so that he could rise and fall easily. He moved slowly, sensually, his body flexing and shivering above him, every muscle activated and on display for John’s eyes only. John lay still except for the occasional tender caress, his voice completely stolen by the Greek demigod towering over him in silent ecstasy. They were both drenched in sweat and panting when Sherlock let out a soft cry and sped his movements up. John grasped his hips and guided him, moaning in bliss as Sherlock clenched around his cock and hot come splashed across his chest and stomach. Sherlock went boneless, but John expected it and rolled them over with a hand gently clenched in Sherlock’s hair. He pressed his knot inside slowly and began rotating his hips reverently. It wasn’t long before they both shuddered and John moaned Sherlock’s name as they came together this time. 

John lay on top of Sherlock far longer than was necessary, simply wallowing in peaceful harmony with his bondmate and Perfect Match. Sherlock was his entire world, and he whispered that to him over and over again in as many different variations as the English language allowed. When he ran out of verbs and nouns he used his lips and tongue again, sliding down Sherlock’s body to wrap his mouth around that velvety skin and wring sobs of pleasure from his gorgeous lover. 

XXXXXXXX

John overheard Sherlock on the phone with who he assumed was Dr. Katinski later that day. He was whispering, but his tone belayed anger. 

“I know what it means, and I know it’s just a dream, but I fear it means _more_. Twelve times I’ve had this dream that I can recall, and always it’s the same. The empty baby carriage, me pushing it around and around London, my pack avoiding me, and strangers on the street… their faces… What if it means something _more_ than a dream typically does because of what I _am_? An Alpha Dom would _kill_ a child their bondmate brought home that wasn’t their own. Is that a Dom trait or an Alpha trait? John already loves it, I can see it in him, and I just can’t hand a piece of _my John_ over to someone else to raise, but what if I… No… No, I don’t need medication. I’m not _depressed_ or _anxious_ … Yes, we’ve been calling him ‘the surrogate’ instead of ‘Moran’ like you suggested, but it’s not _working_. You’re utterly useless and I have no idea what you did to attract a mate as beautiful as Miss Katya is, but I assure you she deserves better!”

Sherlock hung up the phone and John stared at the picture’s reflection he was using to spy on him, seeing him rub his face and tug his hair anxiously. 

An hour later they got a case that finally broke the tension and gave them the peace they needed.

XXXXXXXXX

Mary Morstan was a 24/7 Little. John didn’t need Sherlock’s deductive skills to recognize that from the moment she stepped foot into 221B. From her Mary Jane shoes to the big floppy blue bow in her curly dark hair, she was dressed the way one would dress a three year old for Sunday school. If the empress cut blue dress with ruffles didn’t give her away the adult-sized pacifier and designer diaper bag did. John didn’t know if the diaper bag was for _use_ or _fashion_ and he wasn’t going to be rude enough to ask. Sherlock, thankfully, followed the rules of societal protocol in this case as well. 

“Please, do sit, Miss…?” John asked, gesturing to a chair and wondering if he should put a book down. Some Little’s liked to sit on books even if they didn’t need the boost, which she didn’t since she was as tall as John was.

“Morstan. Mary Morstan. Do call me Mary,” Mary plopped herself down in the chair without complaint and watched Sherlock pace with big eyes, pulling a teddybear out of her diaper bag as she did, apparently for comfort as she soon began to cry, “I’m sorry… it’s just I don’t know whom to go to. He’s never been away this long before.”

“Your ‘Daddy’, I presume?” Sherlock asked, with remarkably little bite for him.

“Yes, Daddy never leaves me for more than a week at a time, and it’s been three now.”

“He travels for his job?”

“Yes, and he has another family, as well. A wife and two kids, his biological kids,” Mary sniffled, accepting a tissue from John with a grateful nod, “He’s an insurance salesman. Oh, but they know about me. It’s all arranged.”

“An open marriage, or does she simply have no say?” Sherlock asked sharply, his voice sounding accusing.

“Oh, no! She’s perfectly aware. We have tea together regularly. I called her last night and she hasn’t seen him in a week, either! That’s why I came to you right away this morning. I can understand if he wanted to leave me, I’m just a doll to him even if he does treat me well, but he’d never abandon his children. He’s a _wonderful_ Daddy! That’s why I love him so, and why he has me, you see? His wife couldn’t have anymore children and they were already in a poly relationship, so he gets both with me.”

“A permanent toddler and his lover as well, interesting,” Sherlock nodded. 

Mary stiffened noticeably, “It’s not like that. _He_ ’s not like that. Big’s aren’t perverts!”

“No, of course they aren’t, obviously,” Sherlock waived his hand dismissively. Thankfully it seemed to calm her.

John was expecting Sherlock to toss her out as he usually did the ‘boring cases’, but he paused a moment and studied Mary’s face before nodding his head and agreeing to look for her missing Daddy. An hour later and they had all the particulars of Mr. Thomas Morstan’s life (Mary had taken his last name, though not legally) and they were headed to the wife to interview her as well. 

John expected she’d finally had enough and had offed him or given him an ultimatum which he’d taken without informing his Little mistress, but their interview found the wife equally upset. She told them she wanted to go see them as well, and had suggested them to Mary, but she had a sick child home from primary.

“Thomas is a saint,” She insisted, “So good with the children. He always wanted a big family and when I couldn’t… I’ve encouraged him to find someone besides Mary and I, someone to give him more children since Mary’s a Beta, but he says it would be too much to hold down three relationships, his job, and still be a competent father. I knew he could do it, though, if he wanted. Thomas is brilliant man!”

Sherlock stood quite suddenly and left the house, leaving a startled wife behind for John to console. He shook her hand, insisted he’d be in touch, and _yes, he’s always like that, aren’t genius’ just barmy?_ before following Sherlock outside to see him fumbling with a cigarette lighter in shaking hands.

“Give me that! You quit, remember? What’s this all about?”

“He’s dead, John. Thomas is dead and he’s left _two_ families behind, such that his Little is. That’s just… it’s wrong and he’s a selfish bastard.”

“Oh, hell, suicide?”

“Yes. She hasn’t noticed the signs, but his desk in his study was all packed up, not just tidy, but packed. Bills all marked paid and placed in the most obvious location; his own insurance package – he’ll have a rider allowing for suicide, of course – placed in a location of prominence; and the coup de grace is that he made sure to take the children out to a fair before vanishing. It was his way of saying goodbye. She’ll find his note amongst his things in the top drawer, no doubt.”

“Sherlock, we have to go tell her.”

“You do it. I’m having a smoke,” Sherlock snatched back his liter and bent cigarette and firmly pressed it to his lips.

John sighed and went inside to do as his Dom wished, but he texted Mycroft as he re-entered the house. 

To: Mycroft Holmes  
Tonight’s a danger night.

Mrs. Morstan was distraught, of course, and the letter was quickly found. John left her weeping on the phone with Mary, relieving John of the burden of telling her as well. John was on his way out the door when his father called him.

_ “Third suicide attempt. You told me that was the magic number, right?” _ Hamish asked.

“Yes. What did he try this time?” John rolled his eyes to Sherlock as he approached him, knowing he’d know the reason why.

_ “Tried bashing his damn head into the stone wall.” _

“Fuck,” John sighed, Sherlock’s eyebrows rose, “I’ll call you back, dad,” John hung up the phone and turned to Sherlock, “The Surrogate’s tried bashing his own brains in. I’m going to have to go… I… I’ll stay if you want.”

“No need, I understand the importance,” Sherlock said dismissively, “Shall I break the news to dear Mary, then?”

John was instantly suspicious. First off, Sherlock was letting him go far to easily for a jealous and possessive man. Second, he never wanted to give a client bad news.

“Sherlock? You’re up to something, and if it’s a 7% solution I’ll go so Alpha on you your head will spin.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You _want_ to tell Mary? Why would you want to tell Mary?”

“Because she was _flirting_ with you!” Sherlock whirled on John, his face twisted in rage, and John fell back a step completely aghast. Sherlock paused. “You didn’t notice.”

It wasn’t a question, but John answered it anyway, “No, you daft bastard, of course I didn’t notice! Even if I was into being a Big, which I’m not, I’m not interested in anyone but you!”

Sherlock grabbed him up and kissed him, soundly, in the middle of the sodding street. Someone snapped a picture and John distinctly heard him or her squeal Sherlock’s name. Good. Let the world know the Consulting Detective was soundly taken.

“Go to our mad Surrogate and I’ll take care of Mary. It will still be my pleasure.”

“She already knows. I’m calling Lestrade. You’re far too cheerful.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but left John to it. Once John saw Sherlock sat down comfortably in Scotland Yard’s illustrious office of D.I. Greg Lestrade he prepared himself to leave.

“You’ll behave yourself?” John fussed.

“Of course I’ll… who’s the bloody Dom here? You keep up the cheek you’ll find yourself watching specials again.”

John shuddered at the thought of the mind numbing scientific chatter and scenes of people or animals being dissected. He had enough of that in real life, let alone by DVD for punishment. 

“Fine. Love you.” John sighed.

“ _Sentiment.”_ Sherlock rolled his eyes and John bussed his forehead before heading out.

XXXXXXXXXX

Four hours later found John gently cleaning the abrasions off of Moran’s forehead. He continued talking softly to him, something he knew his father never did, and Moran was practically devouring it. 

“Ah, good,” Sherlock stated behind him, causing his father to jump and spin the gun towards him, “I see you’ve been…”

John leaping forward and sheltering him from Hamish’s aim cut off Sherlock’s speech. 

“Really, John, no need to be so jumpy. Hamish recognized me, didn’t you?”

“Doesn’t mean I think you’re supposed to be here.” Hamish growled.

“Fuck, Dad, put the gun down! He’s my bondmate! Point it at _him_.” 

Hamish sighed and returned the gun’s aim towards Moran, drawing John and Sherlock’s attention back to the man in question, who was cowering in terror at the back of his own cot.

“As I was saying,” Sherlock stated, straightening himself imperiously, “I see you’ve been following my instructions, John, but I thought he was to be bound _at all times_.” 

John blinked and then fell into character with whatever Sherlock was doing. It’s what he did, after all, followed Sherlock’s lead. Hell, it was a relief at this point; he’d been floundering on his own.

“Yes, well I’m more than a bit concerned about blood clots. He’s been bound this way for a month off and on. I’ve been massaging his arms and shoulders when I’m here and he’s unbound for a bit, but really it should be happening daily if he’s going to remain bound the entire pregnancy. His mouth is getting foul, too, though you can’t tell at the moment with the gag in.” 

“He’s attempted to kill himself, I understand?”

“Yes, a few times now.”

“Bit enterprising of him. You think by now he’d realize by now that we’re in charge of his death as much as his life.”

Moran was staring at Sherlock as if he was a monster from myth and legend, and that’s when it clicked for John. Of all the times Moran had been around Sherlock he’d always acted better than him, as though he knew some great secret that Sherlock was not privy to. It had been an act. Moran was terrified of Sherlock; the man who ended his lover’s life, even superficially, and who was the same gender/dynamic as he was. Omega Dominant. Sherlock had none of the weaknesses in him that John or Hamish had: no Alpha tendencies to make him want to protect Moran as an Omega, or Submissive tendencies to make him want to whimper at his feet. 

“Well, I’m sure he’ll catch up soon enough,” John replied belatedly.

Sherlock nodded and seemed to consider the man, “He does look rather poor, doesn’t he?”

“A bit, yes.” 

“I suppose those restraints are a bit painful after a time?”

John blinked. Sherlock _knew_ those restraints were painful if abused. Omega Dom’s were trained to be artificial Submissives. Sherlock had been put through restraint training in school, same as John had been forced to tie up Omega Sub classmates despite being a Sub himself. It was part of the game, then. Good cop, bad cop. Sherlock was going to be the bad guy to John’s gentle doctor. He was freeing John from the burden of the mess he’d found himself in.

“Quite a bit, actually, and damaging. I doubt he’ll be able to use his arms by the time we cut the baby out of him.” 

Moran gagged and nearly retched, which would have been bad with the gag in, and that drew Sherlock’s attention to it.

“Have you reconsidered cutting his tongue out? The ball gag seems dangerous.” 

“That sort of thing can’t be done safely,” John replied, “He’d likely bleed out before I could stitch all that wiggling muscle up. No way to put him under, either, and a local would only do so much. Then there’s the risk of infection.”

“Right, then. Plan B it is. I had so hoped not to have to resort to this, but it seems inevitable. I’m going to go make some arrangements, John; you finish up in here and join me. Leave him unbound and ungagged. Have him brush his teeth and gargle some mouthwash for about ten minutes. The manacle will hold him; he’s not going anywhere. No one enters this barn without me once you’re done.”

“Yes, Sir,” John replied, bowing low to show Moran his obedience to Sherlock. 

Sherlock paused and ran a gentle hand through John’s hair, “You’ve been doing so well, being cruel to him despite it not being your nature. I’m quite proud of you, John, but you won’t be doing this alone anymore.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.” John replied, with absolutely real feeling.

Sherlock turned on his heal and marched smartly out of the barn. John turned back to Moran to follow his instructions. Moran was trembling with fear, but he also had a great deal of hope in his eyes. The ball gag fell away and he struggled to speak, but was cut off by John’s father and his own weakened tongue.

“That… Son, you need to get away from that man.” Hamish stated, meaning Sherlock, and with quite a bit of fear in his voice.

“What? Dad, he’s my Perfect Match. I’d die.” 

“You’re a sweet boy, junior, I’ve always known that. I know I’ve mocked you for it, but you’re still my son and I still want what’s best for you, and _that_ is… he’s not right in the head. I knew you were playing mind games with the bitch here, but he’s _fucking serious_! How is an Omega even a Dom, anyway? And a powerful one?”

“Felt that, did you?” John asked, amused. 

“I’m not fucking joking, John!”

He wasn’t. He hadn’t called John by his name since he’d signed up for the military, notably the last time he’d been proud of John.

“Sherlock is going to make sure we have a healthy baby, Dad. I know he’s odd, if it helps he’s not a psychopath, he’s a sociopath. He’s a bit off, but he’s not a killer or anything.” 

“Kid befow.” Moran stuttered, his dry, swollen tongue barely working. 

John ignored him, thankfully so did John’s father, who rarely took stock in what Omega’s said.

“Kid peppa befow.” Moran tried again, looking frustrated and nearly gagging John with his foul breath.

“Here, mouthwash. Use it. Ten minutes, and I’ll time it for you. Trust me, you’ll be grateful. We both will.”

Moran took a capful and swished it about, his eyes burning at the taste after having only the solution John had made him, to clean and moisturize his mouth, dripped into the ball gag for an entire month. 

John scrubbed Moran down while he swished the wash, quickly smearing rubbing alcohol across his chaffed arms and shoulders. He didn’t bandage his wrists, the bastard would use the cloth to harm himself, and so he just smeared it with antiseptic cream. Finally Moran spit into the toilet and threw himself down on his back on his cot as though he’d just entered a swanky hotel. John supposed after weeks of not being able to lie comfortably in _any_ position that this felt like complete freedom. 

He left the exhausted man and headed out of the barn with his father in toe. Sherlock was nowhere in sight so they both just headed for the house, where they found Sherlock having tea with John’s mother. Nancy was smiling happily, obviously charmed by Sherlock, and making those small motions that Subs made around Doms who weren’t their own. It probably wasn’t even conscious, but Hamish bristled.

“What you doing in here, Freak?” Hamish snarled at Sherlock.

“Hamish Dean Watson! He is our guest _and_ our son’s bonded! You shouldn’t speak to him that way!” 

Hamish moved forward to slap Nancy for her impudence, John moved forward to intercept, and Sherlock stepped forward to place himself squarely in Hamish’s way. There was a tense moment where they simply stared each other down, Hamish fuming and Sherlock smirking, before Sherlock calmly decided he’d had enough.

“ **Stand down, soldier.** I’m not your enemy,” Sherlock ordered.

Hamish’s shoulder’s drooped, his eyes lowered, and he stepped back. Cowed. Sherlock Holmes had just forced back the man John still thought of as the epitome of Alphaninity, despite the fact he’d realized many years ago that a proper Alpha didn’t need to slap his partner around to Dom him or her. 

“I’ll go make up the spare room,” Nancy stated firmly, “Johnny, you clean yourself up and help yourself to anything in the fridge. You know where the towels are?”

“Yes, Mum.” 

Nancy headed upstairs and John allowed himself the comfort of being so familiar with this old house that he knew exactly where she was based on the creaks. Hamish scowled and headed into the sitting room , turning on the T.V. and settling down to watch a game. He’d eventually start yelling for a brew, but John had no intention of fetching one for him. 

“What now?” John asked Sherlock instead.

“Now you accept some congratulations.”

“Sorry?”

Sherlock smirked and handed John his phone. John hadn’t even realized he’d picked it off of him, probably while he was still at the Yard. John had about a dozen messages from people, all congratulating him on his impending fatherhood. Accept for Dr. Katinski, who was breaking a hell of a lot of ethic laws by not reporting them, no one knew what was going on with Moran. Lestrade had carefully pretended not to have heard anything about a baby, probably so he could claim ignorance later, and they’d left him in the dark aside from the snippet of conversation he’d heard during the furpile. How the hell did anyone know about a baby?

“Sherlock?” John asked.

“I made an announcement at the Yard. I’m actually surprised how long it took them to respond.”

“What kind of an announcement?”

“Why, my pregnancy of course.”

John stilled, his heart beating a wild tattoo in his chest, and then leaned forward to breathe in Sherlock’s scent, wanting that sweet smell that meant pregnancy, but found none. He stepped back and looked up at Sherlock in confusion. Sherlock looked sad.

“It’s the easiest way to explain a sudden appearance of a baby, John. The missing part of your plan you asked me to souse out? Everyone is going to wonder why you suddenly show up with a child, with me never having been pregnant, and no talk of adoption. I won’t claim being barren, it’s too… I won’t do it, so we’d never have a reason to adopt. It wouldn’t be good for the child, either, thinking they were unwanted. This is better. Let us go away to the country for my ‘delicate pregnancy’ and return with a baby in tow. It even explains your absences as preparing for the trip.”

John nodded understanding. Sherlock was fully committing himself to this mess. 

“I’ve even contacted the local constabulary, such as they are, and have offered my services for old cold cases. I’ll do it from here, of course, with you running errand under the claim I’m bedridden. It will be fun!”

Sherlock did one of his 360 perk ups and cheerily ordered John to shower before heading into the sitting room to harass Hamish. Apparently they were going to stay at his childhood home until the baby was born. With John and Sherlock so close, Moran could be left unbound and checked daily, even hourly if Sherlock was feeling bored.

_ We’re all going to kill each other _ . John determined as Hamish started swearing from the other room.

XXXXXXXXXX

John was inspecting the old lumberyard where a man had been found dead twenty years ago. The lumber mill had run for about 11 more years before being shut down by environmentalists. Sherlock was positive there was something still to be found here. He was told to search all of the buildings, which totaled one, and bring back or photograph everything he came across. John happily did as he was told, grateful to be away from his moody bondmate who had been having ‘sympathy mood swings’ as Moran’s pregnancy progressed. 

Two months to go. Moran was as docile as a kitten; though he did try to Dom John on occasion, it was always with poor results as Sherlock was always putting him in his place. That swollen belly was a torturous thing for John who had found he suddenly sported a pregnancy fetish. Sherlock noticed immediately, of course, and while they’d fought about it at first Sherlock had quickly moved on and accepted it- claiming he’d have all of John’s attention once the baby was born and he could go back off of suppressants and get pregnant himself. In the mean time, every time they left Moran John would spend hours in bed with Sherlock imagining that round belly full of kicking baby was growing out of the detective instead. 

John opened a drawer and found an old metal cashbox in it, which he immediately began to pick. After all these months running around for Sherlock he’d gotten fairly good at it. The lock was rusty, though, so John settled for using a hammer he found to bash it open, hoping he wasn’t destroying evidence in the mean time. He tried to focus on the clasp so the lock was left undamaged. Heaven forbid they found the owner of the key and had no lock left to match it to! 

Inside were a mess of photos, letters, money, and a red ribbon. John glanced at them all, noted that one photo was the victim with a rush of excitement, and stuffed the whole box into a computer bag he had brought with him. He finished photographing the scene and headed home after a brief chat with Sherlock, who was bursting to see the contents of the cashbox.

“Brilliant, John. The sad thing about prejudice is that it blinds us to motive,” Sherlock stated as he leaned back from his perusal of the items. He was rubbing his lower back, apparently more sympathy pains. 

“Yes, Sherlock, not noticing the motive for murder is certainly the worse part of prejudice,” John replied sardonically. Sherlock ignored him.

“They were _gay_ John. The victim and his killer were two gay Omega’s and in a small town like this. What do you deduce happened?”

“Christ. No one talked about it, but everyone knew, I’m sure. It’s still a bit like that. When Harry dated another Omega for the first time half the town started acting all cold towards our family. Like we’d brought shame on them.”

“Don’t be silly, John, of course they talked about it. Just not to the police, or if they did the police saw it as a ‘good riddance to bad rubbish’ situation and moved on.”

“Wait, if the stigma back then was high enough for people to condone the murder of a gay Omega, then what about the murderer? Wouldn’t the police have gone after him with extreme… well… prejudice?”

“Normally, yes, but he was rich so they left him be. Money gives people many allowances for uniqueness.” 

“Then the killer was…!”

“Yes, you’ve figured it, too, now I’ve given you more clues than necessary, but look into this box and tell me how I reached _my_ conclusion.”

John searched the box again, using his phone to look up a picture of the founder of the lumberyard since he assumed that was the killer, but there were no photos of him in the cashbox. The letters were love letters, but the victim signed them all and the addressee was ‘my dearest one’. There was nothing more personal in the body of the letters than sexual frustration and plans to meet in the lumberyard itself, which any number of workers might have done. Omega workers in a lumberyard? That was unlikely, especially back then when Omega’s were kept strictly to clerical type jobs. The victim had no reason to be where he was killed, and it made more sense to suspect Beta’s since that’s what most of the workers were. The red ribbon…

“Oh! The ribbon!”

“Yes, but what about it?”

“It’s the sort of thing fashionably worn by Omega’s back then, but it’s made of _real_ silk, and in a poor farming town that means wealth, which means business owner, which means the only Omega business owner 20 years ago. So this isn’t the cashbox of some site supervisor, this is Mr. Arthur Vicante’s cashbox, but what was it doing in that building?”

“It was the only building there?”

“Yes.”

“Charles ‘Charlie’ Franklin was killed on the site?”

“Yes.”

“By his Omega lover?”

“Yes, and I’m guessing it was due to what was discovered at autopsy. Charlie was pregnant, which means he was unfaithful to his Omega lover. So, crime of passion, but why was this box there and how did you know it would be?”

“The positioning of the body, John. Charlie may have been left out to the elements, but an anonymous call reported his location before a single animal could wander near him. He was also found with his hands folded as though being laid to rest. Salt and mucus were found on his face, but no DNA testing was done back then so no one had known they weren’t his own tears. Mr. Vicante killed his lover in a jealous rage and then reported his death so no harm would come to his corpse. He took all his mementos of his lover, including a symbol of his own cursed Omega status, which had kept them apart, and took them to the site of his death to mourn. Being wealthy, he didn’t want to get his hands dirty by digging a grave for the box so he placed it, locked, in the building instead. He probably visited it often for a while before moving on. I understand he eventually married an Alpha, had a few children, and died relatively young.”

“He died in childbirth with their third,” John stated, staring sadly at the picture on his phone of the sad looking Omega and his small family. The Alpha beside him seemed unaware of his Omega’s misery. 

“Another case successfully solved. One for your blog?”

“I think… I think this one is better left off.”

“You’re thinking of the children? They’d be mostly adults by now.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t be crushed to find their mother was gay and a murderer.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock replied, looking uncomfortable, “You aren’t going to ask me not to take this to the police?”

“What? No, but… perhaps suggest the children needn’t be told?”

“Not my area.”

“Right, well, we’ll just…”

“Junior! Get out here, the bitch is shouting for you!” Hamish yelled from the back yard.

John and Sherlock headed out to the barn where Moran was yelling at the top of his lungs, his voice agitated. 

“I didn’t do anything! It’s not my fault! It just started up!”

“What started up?” Sherlock asked as they stepped into his pen. Moran was at the bed, sitting on his blankets, which he’d arranged in a pile underneath him for some odd reason.

“I just started bleeding for no reason. It’s not my fault,” Moran’s eyes flashed defiantly, but there was real fear behind them.

Not as much as John felt, though, as he hurried forward and ordered Moran to lay back and spread his legs. Moran did as told, though he still looked disgusted by having to take orders from a Submissive. The blankets he’d been sitting on were soaked with blood and other fluids. John quickly scrubbed his hands and arms with the rubbing alcohol and water solution they kept nearby and donned a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves. He pressed his hand inside of Moran slowly, working him loose enough to enter relatively painlessly, and pushed himself in until he found what he was looking for. 

“He’s dilated, _fuck._ This kid’s early.”

“Hospital? We can pass him off as Sherlock if we keep his head covered. Say he’s famous and doesn’t want anyone seeing his face,” Hamish suggested.

“Not likely to work, and it will be both all our lives if the cat gets out of the bag,” Sherlock reminded. 

“So much for a cesarean. You’ll recover faster this way, anyway,” John informed Moran gently. 

“I’ve got to _push_ this awful thing out of me?!” Moran asked, with a look of disgust on his face.

“Every time I forget you’re not human you just have to go and remind me, don’t you?” John snarled, “That’s my _cub_ you’re talking about.”

“It’s a disease in my body that I’ll be happy to shit out for you,” Moran snarled. 

John ignored him and Sherlock restrained Hamish, but he looked as though he wanted to strike the man as well. 

“Is it too soon, John?” Sherlock asked instead.

“Yes, but he’s _very_ dilated. A good 8 cm, I think, though I’m not an obstetrician. His water’s broken. There’s no stopping this now. Are you in any pain?” John asked, more concerned as to why the man hadn’t been having contractions.

“Yes, damn it, I’ve been yelling for hours!” 

“How long?” John asked, glancing at Sherlock’s watch when he offered it.

“How should I know? You keep me in here without a glimpse of sunlight for fucking _months_.”

“You can tell when the sun’s up. Was it since last night?” Sherlock snapped irritably.

“Yes. I woke up and… _fuck_!” The man’s face drained of color and his swollen belly visibly clenched. He lay still, holding his breath through the pain, and clenched the sides of the cot. 

“ **Breath, even and steady**.” Sherlock ordered, using his Dom Voice to ensure cooperation. 

Moran glared at him, but let his breath out in an agonized moan before drawing another in.

“Very good. I’ve read up on this quite a bit and moaning is best, no screaming. You’ll get nowhere that way except a sore throat,” John advised before standing up and asking his father to bring his mother in. 

“We need to move fast,” John told Sherlock after his father hurried out the door, “I meant to have this place sterilized for the delivery. Can you stay with him while I get things together?”

“Of course.” Sherlock replied, and leaned against the wall to shout breathing instructions at the moaning, gasping man on the cot. 

John headed for the back of the barn where the folding table was that he’d used to insert, and eventually remove, Moran’s feeding tube. It wasn’t until he was done setting up the table, scrubbing everything in sight, and giving instructions to his parents and Sherlock, that it all hit him. 

He was about to have a baby. 

  


[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/61526.html)

  



	15. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 15

John didn’t really come back to his own senses until he stepped into the bedroom that he and Sherlock had been sharing and breathed in his bondmate’s scent, which had permeated the walls. He wanted to cross the room and drop down to his knees beside that beautiful man as he rocked back and forth, but he wasn’t sure if he was welcome. His memories were slowly creeping back to him, and the excuse of ‘it was instinct’ was screaming at him, but it gave him little comfort now and wouldn’t carry a lot of weight with Sherlock.

‘Instinct’ had dictated that Alpha’s care exclusively for Omega’s. ‘Instinct’ had dictated that Omega’s cared exclusively for children. ‘Instinct’ had created the Dom and Sub dynamics to fill in the gaps; Submissives longing for the approval of their Doms, and Dominants longing to control both their Subs and their children in order to bring order to the home. Without instinct Alpha’s might let a child’s welfare come before an Omega’s, which meant the Omega would die and there would be no more children born. Without instinct Omega’s might put their Alpha’s welfare before their children and let them starve while trying to please a greedy Dom. It all came together to form one giant puzzle in which each person had two pieces and needed to work together to form the greatest picture of all, a happy home.

It wasn’t moving, that tiny bundle in Sherlock’s arms, and John tried to think back through the delivery process to figure out if it ever had. He recalled the head being born, recalled using a bulb to suction the mouth and nose, but then Moran had started hemorrhaging and he’d let that fragile head on that tiny, weak neck go as everything became a blur of _instinct. Protect the Omega. Save the Omega._ His mind had screamed that _this Omega_ was fertile, had proved as much, and was important to save. So he’d let that helpless-to-support-itself head go and rushed to the medical supplies intending on saving Moran instead. Sherlock had been the one to reach out and hurriedly tug the baby free; being met with a growl from John who had instinctively perceived him as a threat when his tugging had torn Moran further. Sherlock had pulled out the infant, gripped the umbilical cord, and run with it, fleeing the barn and the danger his own instincts perceived in both John and the biological mother of the child he clutched. He’d torn the placenta free and, the last John recalled before turning back to tend Moran, he’d been dragging it behind him as he fled the barn. John’s mother had been hot on his heels.

That brought them to now. Moran dead in the barn below; John couldn’t save him, and now that his _instincts_ had calmed down he didn’t care that the vile thing had died in childbirth. In fact he preferred it. The man’s dying words had been _“Let me hold my child before I die… so I can break its tiny neck.”_ John had _almost_ felt guilty, until he’d finished that sentence. He hadn’t told Moran what he’d suspected, that the baby had been born dead; that the difficult and early labor had in fact been a late-term miscarriage. That Sherlock was sitting in the rocking chair his mother’s family had soothed dozens of children in for a full century, surrounded by hastily fetched boxes full of baby odds and ends from the attic, rocking a lifeless bundle of heartbreak.

“Sherlock…” John started.

“Don’t,” Sherlock cut him off, “Don’t apologize. I understand, just… Give me a moment.”

A moment. Sherlock wasn’t going to just need a moment. He was going to need a week in a psych ward.

“I take it Moran is dead?” Sherlock asked softly.

“Yes, and good riddance. My dad wanted to get rid of the body, but I thought it best to consult you first. I figure you’d be able to work out something that seemed innocent.”

“Yes, a very narrow, but deep pit. Use the old farm equipment to manage it or rig something. Stuff Moran at the bottom, he’ll have to be curled up, and put about a foot or two of dirt over him and tamp it down tightly. Put the baby’s placenta and umbilical cord on top in a wooden box. Bury that. Corpse dogs will go straight there, but the police won’t dig deeper than the box.”

“Brilliant as always,” John replied, then took a few hesitant steps forward.

“Your mother ran out to get formula. I told her I didn’t think Moran would make it.”

“That’s… good.” John wasn’t sure if that meant the child was alive or that Sherlock and his mother were well into some sort of Omega delusion that it was. He’d heard of that before: of Omega’s caring for their dead children until… John retched a bit. He couldn’t think that. He wouldn’t. He could feel subdrop creeping up on him and he wasn’t going to abandon Sherlock to it now. John was still trying to gather his bullocks when Sherlock spoke again.

“I’m really not mad at you. You _can_ come closer,” Sherlock removed one hand from the bundle and gestured to the floor.

John practically ran forward and dropped to his knees, clasping that hand and kissing it desperately. He needed to show Sherlock he was still _his Sub_ and _his Alpha_ regardless of his behavior an hour ago. His motions jolted the bundle and it let out a soft whimper. John responded with a relieved sob and pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s knee, weeping like a child. It was over. It was all over and they had a _living_ _baby_.

“Were you that upset, love?” Sherlock teased lightly, “Surely you realize that an Omega with a baby is practically euphoric?”

“I… I thought it was dead. It never cried,” John realized with a jolt that he didn’t even know his child’s sex.

“ _He_ still hasn’t,” Sherlock corrected, “Only whimpered a bit. Your mother is worried, and perhaps if you’ve gotten your head on straight you could take a look at him?”

John waited until Sherlock placed the baby in his arm and then carefully and slowly walked to the bed, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye to make sure he wasn’t going to go feral on John. Sherlock seemed relaxed, trusting his Alpha would not harm a child that was his biologically.

John gently unwrapped the whimpering bundle, watching the poor thin thing shiver miserably. It was wrapped in a cloth diaper that looked gigantic on it, the little cord tied off with a bit of string and smelling of alcohol. Whichever Omega had tended him had done well. He was covered with a thin layer of fuzz all over his little body, as many premature babies were.

“We may need to take him to a hospital, Sher, he’s premature. He may need a bun warmer.”

“We can’t rig something here? The nearest hospital that has an infant ward is London, and that would be problematic.”

Many hospitals didn’t have infant wings outside of larger cities since most Omega’s delivered at home and cared for their children the same. If there were a serious problem they’d take them in, but even that didn’t hold true and John had been to more than one home to pronounce the death of a child that should have been hospitalized.

“We can rig a bun warmer, but… I don’t know, Sher. He’s awfully weak.” John re-swaddled the baby, or tried to, and Sherlock quickly stepped in to fix his piss-poor attempt.

“I realize that, and if you say he must go, I won’t fight you… not intentionally, at least, but I’m also thinking of our cover story.”

“Right. There’s no way you’re more than 6 months along right now. People in London would know that and recognize us. Even if I showed up with the baby alone, claiming to be a dick Alpha who wouldn’t let their Omega go to hospital after delivery, they’d be able to tell this baby was born two months early, not four.”

“They’d also send someone out to collect me out of concern I wasn’t well. Exactly.”

“So which is more important? Keeping us and my family out of danger, or this baby?”

They both looked down at the tiny bundle in Sherlock’s arms and neither bothered to answer John’s question. It didn’t need an answer. The answer was whimpering softly and rooting for milk.

John’s mother slowly opened the door and asked if she could come in. Sherlock nodded and sat himself back in the rocking chair as she scurried forward and showed him how to angle the bottle so the baby wouldn’t get too much gas. The little thing sucked greedily, and John smiled at its hungry little movements.

“Well, that’s a good sign. Perhaps he won’t need to go to hospital after all. Let’s give it an hour or two, yeah? I’ll see dad about digging a hole and rigging a bun warmer. I’ll have to steal some gear from your chicken’s, mom.”

“Oh, Johnny, you can have the whole house and the comforter off our bed if it will keep our first Grandbaby healthy!” Nancy announced.

“Keep the comforter. It smells like mothballs,” John teased, bussing Sherlock’s forehead and heading for the door.

“Oh, go on!” Nancy laughed.

John was about to when a thought occurred to him… it might not be a very smart question to ask but…

“Sherlock? Have you picked out a name? I have a few ideas, but we never really discussed it.”

Sherlock looked startled, apparently he hadn’t thought he’d have a say or hadn’t thought that far ahead. Knowing Sherlock, it was the former.

“I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“Yeah, good. Right. Nothing to weird, yeah?”

Sherlock snorted, “No Mycroft or Sherlock Junior, then?”

“Let’s not and say we did.”

Sherlock snorted and John headed out. His father disposed of Moran and cleaned the barn of all traces of the bastard while John built the bun warmer. He already had a very illegally obtained stash of things such as oxygen and morphine – the later of no use with Moran dead – but he had no idea what the levels an infant should get would be. His branch wasn’t pediatrics. John decided a bit of Internet time was in order, packed up his tools, and carried the egg warmer turned baby warmer upstairs to Sherlock.

He was halfway up the stairs when he had to stop, lean the machine against the railing, and put his hand over his face to wipe at the tears that were suddenly pouring down his face as he sobbed wholeheartedly for the second time that day. From upstairs came the most beautiful, if indignant, sound he had ever heard.

His son was crying.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Two months later John wheeled Sherlock into the homicide division of New Scotland Yard and was received with a loud round of cheers and applause. Sherlock was grinning from ear to ear, lightly bouncing their startled child in his arms. John was being knocked about by every well-wisher who had lined up to smack his shoulder and shake his hand. Lestrade came forward on long legs and squatted down in front of the happy new mother. Sherlock happily greeted his pack Alpha with a kiss to his cheek, much to Lestrade’s surprise, and pressed the squirming bundle into his arms. Lestrade would likely be the only non-familial Alpha Sherlock would allow touching his child until the poor coddled thing was a yearling.

“Look at you, angel boy!” Lestrade cooed, “You look like an Alpha, yes you do. I bet you’re a big strong Alpha.”

Sherlock snorted and growled that no child of his was going to be born a stupid Alpha.

“When’s the next one?” Dimmock asked, wisely staying away from the baby Lestrade was holding.

“Not sure, Sherlock needs a break after that hard delivery,” John replied for Sherlock.

John rested his hands on the shoulders of his wheelchair bound bondmate, who scoffed and declared himself fit for the conception of twins within a week.

“Git,” John teased, “He probably won’t even go on heat for a month or two.”

“I see motherhood hasn’t calmed him any,” Lestrade joked, and Sherlock gave him a scandalized look and demanded his child back. The group laughed.

“Well?” Donovan asked, and everyone stilled in anticipation.

“Well what?” John asked, honestly confused.

“The name, idiot!” Donovan scolded with a laugh, “Or are you all still keeping it under wraps even now we’ve met him?”

“Gregory,” John replied, blushing a bit and glancing at Lestrade.

“What, after me?” Lestrade stammered.

“Hope you don’t mind,” John grinned.

“Bloody honored, is what I am!” Lestrade stepped forward and grappled John in a one armed hug, both men grinning happily.

“If you don’t mind overmuch, I’d rather my son learned a civilized tongue before you lot teach him how to curse like a yardman,” Sherlock scolded irritably, fishing about in the nappy bag over his shoulder for a bottle.

“Oh, come off it, Sherlock. You can’t expect them to mind their tongues all the time, especially with you dragging him to crime scenes,” John tutted.

Silence.

“What?” Sherlock glared.

“You aren’t _really_ going to drag a newborn to crime scenes, are you?” Donovan asked, looking scandalized.

“Well, no, we’ll wait a bit. He hardly does more than sleep at the moment and my very clingy doctor has yet to give me leave to _walk on my own_ ,” Sherlock glared at John, “So I’m going to have to forgo any crime scenes for a bit. Once I’m back on my feet, though, certainly I intend to begin his education early. No reason not to, really. Unless the crime scene has a contamination risk I see no harm.”

“Course you don’t. Un-bloody believable,” Donovan shook her head and Sherlock favored her with a glare so she put up her hands placating. “Right, sorry, no swearin’.”

“Well, we’re going out to lunch if anyone fancies joining us,” John invited, which was met with mostly polite refusals and a few gatherings of coats.

“I can’t,” Lestrade sighed, “I’ve got a blood… ah… that is… I’ve got a triple murder. One of the vic’s is a politician, the other two his wife and mistress. Bit of a mess, really.”

“ _John!_ ” Sherlock pleaded.

“Only if you eat,” John stated, arms crossed in Alpha determination.

“I never eat during a case, it slows down my…”

“You do now. We’ll never get pregnant again with how skinny you are.”

Sherlock let out a longsuffering sigh, “ _Fine._ ”

Lestrade grinned triumphantly, “Right then, this way.”

They headed into Lestrade’s ready room and Sherlock passed the baby to John before levering himself out of the chair. John sighed and didn’t bother fighting it. It wasn’t as if he actually _needed_ the chair. It was just part of their cover story. The pictures were rather basic; each person had been shot execution style, which ruled out double-murder-suicide despite the relationships of the victims.

Sherlock was studying the police report and muttering to himself when Lestrade received a call. Lestrade glanced at the phone, flushed, and excused himself to take the call. When he returned a few minutes later he looked drained and tossed himself down in a nearby chair.

“Bad news?” John asked with real concern, gently rocking the greedily suckling baby.

“Just relationship troubles.”

“I thought you and Cheryl were divorced,” Sherlock piped up. John gaped at him.

Lestrade laughed and shook his head, “Been deleting things, have you? Good. Keep it that way. What have you got for me?”

“It’s only staged to look like an assassination. This was done by an amateur.”

“Course it was, now who was it?”

“That has yet to be determined.”

Sherlock scooped up baby Greg from John’s hands and nuzzled him affectionately, “The game is on, Gregory, dear, and you’re about to solve your first case.”

Baby Greg burped loudly in response and sicked up some milk.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

John pulled Lestrade aside and as Sherlock began pointing out the pictures to the baby and explaining what they were.

“Are you alright? You look headed for topdrop.”

“I’ve been and back in the last week,” Lestrade sighed, rubbing his forehead, “But I’m not about to burden a new family with bachelor problems.”

“Don’t be dense,” John sighed, “You’re our pack Alpha. We take care of you as much as you take care of us. Is it Mycroft? I saw you two at the furpile.”

“Yeah, it’s him. Bloody bastard. I wish I’d beaten some sense into him that day with Sherlock’s flogger. He’s leading me on a merry chase.”

“He doesn’t seem the type to play hard to get.”

“He’s not, but apparently I am. I can’t settle, John, I’ve got no fucking clue why. Any other Alpha worth his knot would have just taken what he wanted, but I can’t do that to him. He’s so bloody _proud_ and I feel like I’m going to break him if I bend him to my will. That would destroy what I love about him.”

John whistled. The ‘L’ word? “You’ve got it bad.”

“Don’t I know it?”

“Furpile? You can come to ours after work, we’ll put the baby to bed and watch movies, just none of Sherlock’s.” John shuddered jokingly.

“I can’t,” Lestrade stated, truly looking stressed, “His Majesty Iceman has summoned me. I’ll be there for the night or whenever he tosses my arse out again, whichever comes first.”

“For what it’s worth, you’re right. Everyone pretends it’s all cut and dry; one person submits and the other demands it of them, but it’s not that simple. If it were the Omega Subs would be the brainless ones. I’m above average intelligence for an Alpha, you know that? Higher than a Beta, too, though I don’t compare to Sherlock. They wouldn’t have given me a medical degree otherwise. There’s a reason, you know. It takes a hell of a lot more than pheromones to do what we do.”

“No one compares to the Holmes boys, but yeah, I get you. I just… thanks. I needed to hear that. It’s tough battling your own biology, but I really can’t just pin him down and rip his shoulder open. He might reciprocate out of instinct and Sub tendencies, but he’d resent it. We’d end like Cheryl and I did. I’d just come home one day to find he’d replaced me and the whole bloody mansion was filled with some other Alpha’s scent.”

“Mansion?”

“You’ve got no fucking idea.”

“Bloody hell,” John laughed and shook his head.

“John!” Sherlock called, “We’re leaving!”

“Not with the baby if you’re going after someone!” John called back, chasing after Sherlock who was halfway to the lifts already.

“We need a nanny, then,” Sherlock stated, and actually bothered to hold the lift for John.

“We need a whole crew of them, one for the baby and three for you.”

The lift was closing as John looked out to see Lestrade staring at the crime scene photo’s with a look of absolute loss on his face. John wondered who’s faces he was picturing and if his pack Alpha was headed in a very bad direction.

** Notes: **

We're going to delve into Mystrade for a bit, but I promise it's only temporary and won't be terribly descriptive for those of you who don't want to see that. See my other story 'Give and Take' for the Mystrade lovin'. Chapter 4 has Gregory Lestrade's abridged version of 'Perfect Match' which is at least worth a read since it explains a bit how Sherlock and Lestrade were thinking when they handed John over to Moran's sex cult. 

[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/61803.html)


	16. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 16

John slipped baby Greg, who everyone was affectionately calling BG, into his bassinet, making sure the swaddle was secure and his pacifier still being firmly suckled. With a sigh he headed back out to the sitting room where Sherlock was nervously fiddling with flasks and tubing. He was supposed to be packing up his science gear to move it into 221C, but he was struggling with his instincts a bit. Omega’s naturally protected their children from any form of harm, but Dom’s tended towards instant gratification and a thorough possessiveness of their home. Normally the Alpha instinct to protect the home and Omega countered this, but Sherlock lacked it. He also lacked the Submissive trait to clean and organize. This task meant his freedom to do whatever he pleased in the flat was dwindling and it was overwhelming him.

“How about we do it together?” John suggested gently, but it only seemed to frustrate Sherlock more, and he threw a beaker into the sink where it exploded into little glass missiles. Sherlock stormed off while John frantically began cleaning up the mess. It took him a bit to notice he’d been cut, but by the time he did the blood had trailed down his arm and dripped onto the floor.

“Did you really have to do that?” John snarled, coming out into the sitting room in a huff, “Now look, I can’t even reach it myself.” 

Sherlock scowled at John’s bleeding shoulder, then promptly scowled at the wall instead. John took a _very_ deep breath and counted to ten.

“Sherlock, I know you’re angry and fighting with yourself, but I need your help. I’m your Sub and I’m hurt, I need you to take care of me.”

Doctor Katinski had been working with John and Sherlock on this form of communication, reminding their often-frustrated partner that they had a role that needed fulfilling. He had specified that they should list what they needed and which aspect needed it; I need you to do this because of my dynamic or gender. 

“Sherlock,” John tried again when he continued to sulk, “We’re parents now. We need to work together and I need you to stop shutting me out.”

“I told you when we first met that sometimes I don’t talk for days and…”

“Things change, sometimes whether we want them to or not. Sherlock, you hurt me. I need my Dom to take care of me.”

Sherlock levered himself to his feet and took a look at John’s shoulder. John watched his face from the corner of his eye and saw the minute Sherlock switched from frustrated sulky Omega to worried Dom. 

“There may have been chemicals on this, I’ll need to pull out the glass and check you for any signs of irritation. It needs to be cleaned.”

“Yes, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock tugged John over to the sink, but was halted by the glass on the floor. Sherlock rolled his eyes skyward, grabbed the broom, and quickly shifted the shards off to the side. He ignored the ones in the sink and on the counter in favor of quickly pouring cupfuls of water on John’s shoulder. The glass hurt more coming out than going in, but John was no stranger to pain.

“Shame neither of us appreciates cutting,” Sherlock teased lightly.

“I’d let you if you wanted,” John replied, though it really didn’t do it for him.

“You’d let me do anything to you,” Sherlock scolded a bit.

They smiled fondly at each other, and once Sherlock had carefully pressed a thick bandage to John’s shoulder they enjoyed a slow, lingering kiss. 

“We’ll have to check it in an hour. Tell me if it itches or burns. If it’s still fine by then and you aren’t feeling sick I’ll stitch you up.”

“When did you learn how to stitch someone up?”

“Madrid.” Sherlock replied. His eyes went cold and he walked away with his back stiff. John knew the signs. Something that had happened in the three years Sherlock was gone. 

“Sorry, love,” John murmured, kneeling beside the couch that Sherlock had tossed himself down on, “why don’t you let me pack up your things? I know you think I’ll just mix it up, but you can always sort it later, when you’re feeling up to it.”

Sherlock nodded to the ceiling and John headed over to take care of the mess in the kitchen. It occurred to him that this was probably the outcome Sherlock had wanted, but there was hardly a point in fussing about it. Their gender/dynamic dysfunction often meant John got the short end of the stick since Sherlock didn’t have Alpha traits to balance out his Dom tendencies; he had the urge to control and overpower but no instinct to protect and love John. John on the other hand had the desperate need to cherish Sherlock combined with the Submissive tendencies to care for the house. As Sebastian Moran had noticed, Alpha Subs made good sex slaves.

Something suddenly occurred to John and he abandoned his fiddling with the boxes he’d just moved down to 221C to shoot upstairs and ask Sherlock a much avoided question.

“Sherlock?” John tried, feeling a bit of panic well up in him.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, sitting up at his tone and looking for an enemy.

“Do you love me?” 

“I… what?”

“Do you love me?”

“Why… why would you even ask that?” Sherlock asked, but his face was a careful blank and John could feel his stomach plummeting.

“You’ve never said.”

“I don’t intend to. My parents never did, either, but we still knew they… well, you understand.”

“No, I don’t. Do you love BG?”

“This is ludicrous,” Sherlock tossed himself back down and rolled onto his side with his back facing the room.

“It’s a yes or no question, Sher.”

“Go clean something,” Sherlock avoided. 

“Sherlock!”

“ **Go clean!** ”

John’s body jerked painfully at the Dom Voiced order and he turned quickly to obey. He was on his knees two hours later, fuming in full rage as he scrubbed the spotless kitchen floor by hand for the second time, when Sherlock remembered to retract the order. 

“Oh, you can stop now,” He stated, rooting through the cupboard for some crisps. 

“Thank you, Master,” John snapped, knowing the title irked Sherlock due to it’s association with Moran.

Sherlock wasn’t rising to the bait, though, and John only felt stupid and hurt. Finally deciding he’d had enough for the night, he tossed on his coat, called that he was going out, and stormed from the flat. John texted Lestrade and they met at a pub halfway between their two flats. They were well on their way to being shitfaced when John told him about his disagreement with Sherlock.

“You and me, we should corner them and make them say it,” Lestrade snarled angrily, “I’ll tie them up and beat it out of them.”

“Sherlock wouldn’t take that well,” John reminded.

“Fine then, I’ll beat it out of Mycroft and you’ll suck it out of Sherlock.”

John blinked then burst out laughing, “You know that might actually work?”

“Damn, listen to us. Sitting here wanting to hear ‘I love you’ like a bunch of fucking needy Omegas. Next thing you know we’ll be on our hands and knees begging for a cock, too.” Lestrade ranted, a bit too loudly. An Omega woman down the bar scowled at them and left to look for less offensive company.

“It’s a bit dumb, isn’t it? I mean: we live together, he’s raising my kid, we’re friends, we’re bonded… why the fuck do I care? They’re just _words_.”

“Because you’re like me, you don’t think he does.”

“I’m almost sure he doesn’t sometimes. I think I’m just a habit of his. He likes me around because I compliment him and do his wash.”

Lestrade slapped his back companionably and was about to order something a bit stronger when John had an idea.

“Let’s make them say it. Let’s go Omega on them and get them to do it back. Roll reversal. It’ll be therapeutic.”

“You’ve been in therapy too long, mate.”

“I’m serious! Here… this is what I’m thinking we do.”

John explained his idea and Lestrade sat there, snickering at him until it finally sunk in. 

“You’ve got something there. That might actually _work_.”

“Well, think about it. Sherlock’s gender and dynamic are all skewed, so it’s really not his fault he’s a bit off.”

“A bit?”

“Oi, my bondmate.”

“Sorry.”

“And Mycroft’s got a shit ton of…” John waved his hand drunkenly, “of… shit… on his plate. He’s got to put on a pair of brass balls every day, or this country would go to hell in a hand basket. We’ve got to get them in touch with their Omega sides. Be a bit Omega ourselves, and it just might work.”

“It’s a good thing we’re drunk, because I’d probably punch you otherwise.”

John gripped Lestrade’s shoulder firmly and stared at him seriously, “I’d let you, mate.”

“Course you would. You’d like it,” Lestrade chuckled.

“Probably,” John agreed.

“So… where are we going to find our supplies this time of night?”

“I know a place.”

An hour later John staggered into the flat, slightly less drunk thanks to a heavy supply of water and bread, and John snuck through the flat to locate Sherlock. He was downstairs in 221C, hopefully with the baby monitor, so John would be able to complete his mission without fear of being caught… so long as he didn’t wake the baby. John carefully snuck into their bedroom and slid open the nightstand drawer. It was too dark to read the labels, so he just grabbed every vial in there. He slipped back downstairs to Lestrade and traded him the vials for the bag of goods they’d bought at the 24/7 megastore. Lestrade was giggling, but looked steady enough on his feet for his own mission.

“I couldn’t figure out which, make sure you use the right one.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk.” Lestrade giggled again, then leaned forward and kissed John on the lips. 

“Drink more water,” John advised after shoving him off.

“Your lips are too thin. My has nicer lips.”

“Holmes’ lips are all nice.”

They parted company, and John ascended to the flat with a much more serious face to give Sherlock a lesson in love.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock had been half asleep when he finally staggered upstairs close to two in the morning. The baby had just woken and he had heard him crying over the monitor. John had _not_ done anything about it, despite the fact that Sherlock had heard him walking around the flat hours earlier. When Sherlock got upstairs he headed straight for their bedroom with narrowed eyes, intending on giving John a piece of his mind. 

John was hung over. He gave Sherlock a bleary eyed stare when Sherlock started yelling at him, his head buried beneath the pillow he was using to drown out the sound of _his son_ crying. Sherlock recognized the uselessness of the situation and threw up his hands in defeat. He gently scooped BG out of his bassinet and took him into the sitting room where they had a changing station set up. Clean and re-swaddled, BG fussed lightly from his place on Sherlock’s shoulder as he prepared a bottle one handed. 

There were sticky notes everywhere. Sherlock didn’t know what they were and kept tossing them aside. There was one stuck on every single item in the kitchen. Sherlock yanked one off the bottle, one off the faucet, and ignored the one on the counter. Bottle in hand and baby becoming more insistent, he growled in frustration and sat on the sticky note that was marring his armchair. Sherlock popped the teat in the tiny child’s mouth and tried to doze a bit while the little one suckled. When BG popped off with a contented smack of his lips, Sherlock stirred back to wakefulness, winded him, and carried him back to his bassinet… which also had a sticky on it. Sherlock snatched that one up and turned to the light to turn it off. It also had a sticky note on it. Sherlock grabbed that, and one from his nightstand, and another from his dresser, before clicking the light off and storming out of the room as silently as he could. He didn’t want to wake the baby again.

Once back in the kitchen Sherlock examined the notes in his hand to try to determine what they were and why they were scattered around the house. He blinked at them in confusion, spreading them out in front of him to get a better look. They were very sloppily written, and had a few spelling mistakes, but they were legible enough for Sherlock to realize what they were with a pang of guilt.

_Thank you for acepting my son into your hart and home._

_ This is were you keep my fav lub even though you dont like the strauberry stuff. _

_ The way ur clothes kling 2 ur body is so hot it makes me hard. _

_ I love 2 have afternoon tea with you we shud do it more often _

The last one he found stuck to the back of his dressing gown. It must have been the one from the chair. Sherlock walked around the flat and read the sticky notes as he collected them. By the time he was done he had a thick pile on the coffee table in front of him and was staring at it trying to understand what John was doing. Why compliment him? Why list the things he loved about Sherlock? Some of them weren’t even directly about Sherlock. The one he had found on the baby bottle appeared to be a mock-coupon for ‘one free bottle feed after midnight’. Sherlock assumed John meant he’d take one of Sherlock’s turns during nightshift if he simply handed the sticky back to him. Another- found on his violin case- was a request that Sherlock write him a song. 

Sherlock’s chest ached and he found himself at a loss for how to respond. John had been completely pissed; did he even know what he was doing? He couldn’t _mean_ all of this rubbish. Sherlock picked up one that was completely ridiculous and tried to laugh at it but found he could not.

_I love the way you snoore._

Found on Sherlock’s pillow when he snuck back in to check for more. Who loved snoring? It was an unattractive trait that Sherlock intended to find a remedy to now that he knew he was plagued with it. 

_This tea cozy Msr Hudson made is the same colllor as ur eyes._

It was fairly close, but Sherlock had always thought it hideous. It only remained in the flat because John insisted on it.

_ Your hair alway smells nice, even when u work in th lab. _

Found on his hairbrush in the bathroom. That wasn’t true, Sherlock’s hair had been singed more than once, and there were few smells more repugnant than burning hair.

_You are butiful_. 

Found on the mirror. At least that one made sense and was accurate.

_You make my heart ache_. 

Found on the cow skull, of all places. Why? 

Why had John done this in a drunken stupor, and what did this nonsense _mean_?

Sherlock stayed up the rest of the night shuffling and re-shuffling the sticky notes until they quite lost their adhesive. When morning came and John’s first agonized groans reached his ears he still had no answers to what might have been the most baffling case of his life.

XXXXXXXXX

John woke up with a pounding headache and that awkward feeling that he’d forgotten something important. He staggered out of their room and into the bathroom. After the longest piss of the century he washed up, splashed water on his face, and staggered into the kitchen to find anything liquid and non-alcoholic. He opened the cupboard and pulled out a glass, filled it with water, downed that, and then started the coffeemaker. He could hear Sherlock in the sitting room talking to their son. He seemed to be explaining to him how wood stain and polish would keep the table from rotting. Well, as long as they were both amused. 

John found the paracetamol and downed a couple tabs with another glass of water, taking several deep breaths when he felt it might come back up. Biscuits. Biscuits were definitely in order. John munched while waiting for the coffee to brew and was starting to feel more like his old self. He set out the tray, sugar for Sherlock, milk for himself, and reached for both of their mugs.

There was a sticky note on Sherlock’s mugs. 

Just like that the entire night came rushing back and John glanced around the room. No sticky notes in sight. Had he really plastered the house in love notes? There was one here, but where were the rest? Sherlock had been up, which probably meant he’d found and collected them all. With any luck he would burn them and they’d never speak of it again.

Crumpling up the one from the mug, John poured their coffee and headed out to the sitting room as steadily as he could manage.

“You look worse for wear,” Sherlock commented as John carefully put down the tea tray. 

John dropped to his knees on the floor, smiled ruefully, and began preparing Sherlock’s coffee, as he had every morning since they had bonded. Sherlock shifted their groggy son into a one armed cradle hold and sipped his coffee gratefully. John sat down on the couch now that his morning task was done and, having added milk to his own, practically gulped it in his need for caffeine. Sherlock made a face and John slowed down. So far so good, Sherlock hadn’t mentioned the sticky notes.

“John?”

_ Shit _ !

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I’d like to go out today. I’ve asked Mrs. Hudson to watch BG for a couple of hours.”

“A case?”

“No, but something I’ve been putting off for some time. It’s… not right that I’ve done so.”

“Alright then, since you’ve gotten a sitter I assume I’m going?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, well, it’s not like I’m employed and I haven’t any plans. What did you want to do?”

“It’s a surprise.” Sherlock stated, face a calculated blank.

John’s stomach clenched violently and he quickly sipped some tea to keep its nebulous contents down.

“Once you’re feeling better, I think. Why don’t you go lie back down after you finish your tea? I’ll bring you a sandwich later.”

“Ummm, yeah, sure. Alright. Thanks.” 

That evening Sherlock packed John into a cab and they headed into the business district, hopping out at a popular strip mall. Many onlookers stopped and pointed at them and a few eager fans asked about the baby, and Sherlock’s health, and if he’d still solve crimes. Sherlock largely ignored them, so John answered a few things before asking them politely to let them through. Sherlock was eager to get into a store a few paces off. John didn’t even realize what the store was, he was so distracted by the crowds trying to paw his Omega, until the door had chimed shut behind them and he caught the scent of leather in the air.

A collar shop. They were in a collar shop: an incredibly fancy one. John switched from Alpha to Sub so fast that his knees hit the ground before he could convince them it wasn’t the time or place. Sherlock strode confidently forward and John quickly surged to his feet to follow. Sherlock rang the counter bell until the attendant appeared; looking very annoyed, and then proceeded to tell him _exactly_ what he wanted. 

“I need a leather collar, as close an approximation to this Alpha’s hair color as you can get, with black stitching. It must be half an inch thick, and unadorned save for a tag. The clasp will be gold plating with either a double tongue or a heavy duty single one. Do you have that in stock?”

“I’ll check, Sir,” the man stated, directing his reply to John.

John instinctively dropped his eyes and sidestepped behind Sherlock to show that the man’s actions were inappropriate since John was the sub. The room became painfully silent as the man tried to figure out why the Omega was in charge.

“Sir?” The attendant asked in confusion.

“Yes?” Sherlock replied with a nasty tone.

“Is… is there anything else you require?”

“Do you do engraving on premises?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then I shall require the tag to read ‘Prop of Sir S. Holmes’ on one side and…” Sherlock hesitated for a moment, and then pulled out a sticky note from his pocket and passed it to the attendant, “this should be on the reverse. _Exactly_ this. No need to copy the handwriting, I will _allow you_ to use your own font.”

“Thank you, Sir.” The man replied, and by his tone John figured he’d been suitably Dom’d by Sherlock. 

The man disappeared behind some curtains and was gone a good long while. Sherlock wandered the store and John settled into a comfortable seated kneel on some pads provided for that purpose out of the way of other shoppers. Sherlock was admiring some wrist cuffs when the man returned with several thin long boxes.

“If I may see your… Alpha?”

“Certainly. John, heel.”

John jolted to Sherlock’s side and dropped to his knees there. Sherlock rarely used such commands outside of the bedroom, but he was trying to assert his authority. John was hardly bothered; in fact he was burning with desire. The shop attendant, an Omega himself, was careful not to notice John’s tented trousers lest he offend his oddly Dominant Omega customer. 

Several collars were pulled from their cases and held up to John’s hair. 

“Perhaps if I bring out some lights? Many customers prefer to see the effects under different types of light.”

“Splendid, do so at once.”

The attendant brought out several desk lamps with curious bulbs that he began to flick on and off, shining them on John’s head and the collars. 

“My thought is to aim more for the softer shades than the golden tones,” The salesman advised.

“Agreed, hence the golden buckle.”

“An excellent choice, Sir.”

_ Just don’t aim for the grey. _ John thought, wishing he’d known to do something decent with his hair for a change.

After a time Sherlock was growing more and more frustrated so the attendant asked him to wait a moment. Instead of collars, he returned with swatches of leather.

“I’m not going to _order_ it, I want it today!” Sherlock stamped his foot angrily, and it would have been funny had John not been throbbing for the collar as well.

“I make most of these myself, Sir. I can make it for you in an hour’s time, if that is acceptable? Sir will get exactly what he wants that way.”

Sherlock beamed and accepted the swatches, practically flopping them down on John’s head while the attendant manipulated the lights again.

“There; that one, that thread, and that buckle. Six holes.”

“Here are our tag choices, Sir.” 

Sherlock was directed to a display case featuring everything from dog bone shaped tags of silver to diamond chip studded hearts on 24-carrot gold. Sherlock picked a tag that more resembled a dog tag from the military, to John’s surprise and gratitude, though it was gold instead of steal. Its simplicity was appreciated. 

The attendant and Sherlock chatted while John stared around himself in awe. He couldn’t believe they were here. Most bondmates exchanged collars immediately after their first heat together, but Sherlock had muttered about sentiment whenever John brought it up and finally pointed out that John already had his bite scar and wasn’t that enough? It wasn’t just the symbol of bonding and ownership to John; it was the fact that Sherlock made him proud to be a Submissive for the first time in his life. With that collar around his neck there would be no question as to who was in charge, and John wanted to see people look at Sherlock and realize that he was the man who had Dom’d an Alpha. He wanted people to be as in awe of the great detective as he was. 

Finally they left and went to a nearby restaurant to have dinner while the attendant made John’s collar. John was lost in thought throughout the meal, but Sherlock only gave him an analytical look and left him be. When they finished eating, Sherlock glanced at his watch and announced they still had a good ten minutes. He sat back in his chair, clearly intending on waiting it out right there. John slipped from his seat and crawled to Sherlock’s side, laying his head on the man’s thigh. Sherlock petted his hair and stared out the window at the passers by. John heard a few couples mention how sweet they looked and smiled contentedly. A waiter offered a cushion, but Sherlock just asked for the check.

Finally they returned to the shop and Sherlock inspected his purchase carefully. John kept his head down, not wanting to see it until Sherlock had approved; he was afraid of getting his hopes up. Finally it was lowered to John’s eye level and he lifted a cautious hand to touch the hard leather, delicate stitching, and the shiny tag. He read both sides, curious about the mystery note. He expected something along the lines of their address or Sherlock’s mobile number, but what he saw was far from the norm.

_Prop of Sir S. Holmes_

_ Sher, u complete me _

It had been one of _his_ sticky notes Sherlock had given to the attendant. 

Sherlock instructed John to turn to face him, which John did shuffling on the pad provided for his knees. Sherlock gently buckled John’s new collar on, asking as to comfort and gently caressing his face, ears, and hair as he did so. It was incredibly intimate and John’s face burned with longing. 

Then they were in a cab and John could hardly contain himself anymore. He found himself palming his aching erection through his trousers and grasping Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock stroked a finger across John’s knee and started a wandering path upwards. John was panting by the time Sherlock got to his crotch and the driver snapped at them to keep their clothes on or get out, that he didn’t smell heat so they had no business acting like animals. John was too far gone to be embarrassed.

Mrs. Hudson was likely upstairs with the baby, so John and Sherlock staggered down to 221C, groping each other along the way and snogging like teenagers. John pinned Sherlock against the wall of the still empty bedroom – Sherlock’s lab being in the sitting and kitchen areas – and proceeded to grind against him frantically.

“John,” Sherlock panted, “clothes.”

“Fucking annoying, aren’t they?” John growled into Sherlock’s neck as he lathed his tongue across their bondmark.

“Mmmmmm, and chaffing a bit, yes.”

John tugged Sherlock’s trousers open and pushed them down. Sherlock managed to toe off one shoe and the trouser leg followed, but John snatched him up before he could get the other leg free. 

“John, what are you, OH!”

John had Sherlock pinned to the wall, legs around his waist, and he was eagerly fingering him as he suckled the bondmate greedily. 

“M’gonna fuck you so hard, Sherlock,” John panted and gave him a flirty nip.

“You’re – oh! – You’re going to hurt yourself, we can’t do this _standing_ it’s impossible.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

“We’ll _fall_ , we’ll… oh god, John, yes!”

John was balls deep inside of Sherlock and they paused to adjust and catch their breath. Then John began to half-thrust inside of Sherlock and the man became a writhing pleasure-filled mess. Sherlock clawed at John’s shoulders, bit his neck and ears, and ran his tongue around the edge of the collar until John was sobbing his name. 

When John’s knot started to expand he grasped Sherlock’s back and slid him gently to the floor lifting his legs up higher, by grasping beneath his knees, so he could start pounding into him fast and hard. Sherlock threw his head back, crying out in pleasure as his release soaked both their shirts. John moaned and buried his knot inside that grasping orifice, his hips beginning the torturous, teasing gyrations of post-knotting coitus. Sherlock was in bliss, but John was tense as his own orgasm hovered on the edge; an Alpha needed pressure on his knot to climax, but most of his nerves were in the head of his cock, which was barely getting stimulation. All he could do was continue to give his Omega pleasure, knowing the squeezing of Sherlock’s muscles would send him exploding over the edge into a mindless pit of pure unadulterated sensation. Sherlock was close, John could hear it in his voice, and he began to gyrate faster until Sherlock finally climaxed again. John’s stomach muscles tightened involuntarily, his bollocks drew up, his knot twitched and then expelled his seed with blinding pulsations as wave after wave of bliss washed over him; blinding and deafening him as his body focused on only the release of both his sex and their accompanying endorphins. 

“Oh, god, Sher, yes! Yes! Oh, god! Sherlock! Ahhhhhhhh!”

They sagged against the wall, John occasionally gasping as another orgasm made him shudder and moan. It took at least 10 minutes after final orgasm for a knot to shrink enough to release both participants. John spent that time murmuring admiring words into Sherlock’s ear and caressing any part of him he could reach. John was feeling relaxed and sleepy when his knot finally allowed him to ease free, but before he could Sherlock gripped him fiercely, holding him inside for a moment longer. John’s throat felt tight and it had nothing to do with the collar wrapped snugly around it. 

“You complete me.” Sherlock whispered so softly John almost thought he might have imagined it.

Almost. 

[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/62013.html)


	17. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 17

Sherlock’s heat was delayed. He’d been off of the suppressants for four months now – ever since BG had been born – but had experienced no urges whatsoever. A quick trip to the doctor assured them everything was normal and that he’d just have to wait until his heat kicked in naturally. Apparently the suppressants could throw an Omega off for a year or more, which was probably why Sherlock hadn’t gotten pregnant the last time around. Sherlock was furious about that. He wanted to be pregnant instantly, especially whenever he remembered John being hot and bothered over Moran’s pregnant belly. 

“There’s a mark here, on the ground,” Sherlock pointed, and motioned for John to come closer.

John stepped forward, adjusting BG on his hip, and smiled fondly as Sherlock explained to the almost toddler that footprints could give you a ridiculous amount of information about the person who created them. BG seemed to be completely absorbed in listening to Sherlock, which elicited coos and chortles from the assembled Yardees. 

“As fascinating as it is to actually have you spell out how you deduce something,” Lestrade interrupted good naturedly, “We’d really like to get your conclusion and go arrest the bad guy now.”

“I believe the concierge is your culprit, and your missing opal will be found in the stomach of one of the prize coi in the pond in the hotel lobby. The thief stashed it there, expecting it to blend in with the polished stones, but didn’t count for that one coi which I noted yesterday who regularly toyed with the stones. This one being particularly reflective, it played with it for a while before swallowing it down instead of just mouthing it. That’s why your concierge had been so eager to clean the pond, but then was found chasing the fish around before being fired for killing two of them. He has been trying to get back on the premises ever since, I’ll bet, and these are his chlorine coated footprints from his attempts yesterday immediately after being tossed out. These here,” Sherlock indicated a fresher set, “are from today. Find him, match his shoe tread, and then go fishing.”

Lestrade shook his head in amusement and headed for the entrance to the hotel while Sherlock straightened up and brushed a bit of grass from his knees. The hotel’s side employee entrance had a rather nasty scratch across it from someone trying to pick the lock, but Sherlock had not even analyzed that. He’d said it was inconsequential. They followed Lestrade inside and Sherlock was handed a celebratory glass of champagne by the hotel owner. John was not acknowledged, as he had not been introduced yet and collared Subs were not addressed by Alpha’s until they were introduced to someone new unless their work position (i.e. a doctor at hospital) forced abandonment of protocol. John was fine with that, and found a quiet corner away from foot traffic to play with their four-month-old bundle of joy on the floor. BG was progressing quickly, already crawling, muttering a few barely-formed words, and attempting to pull himself to his feet. Sherlock’s eyes kept wandering over towards them as he accepted the gratitude of the hotel owner and the tearful thanks of the opal owner. It was difficult for Sherlock to be away from BG for any amount of time in public, due to his own Omega instincts, but it made more sense for John to care for the boy while Sherlock ran about chasing cases. They had been forced to leave the poor thing at home twice already to pursue more dangerous cases, and Sherlock had been driven to distraction. He finally found a way to cope by carrying a recently worn article of the baby’s clothes around with him. He kept the little onesie tucked under his scarf where he could smell it regularly. They needed a proper nanny, though, as Mrs. Hudson was growing weary of caring for the rambunctious child. Several of their packmates were trying to introduce some of their extended pack Beta’s, but so far they hadn’t clicked with any of them. 

Sherlock reached out a hand to accept a Danish the hotel’s (recently exonerated) pastry chef was offering, but suddenly recoiled with a look of disgust on his face. John instinctively abandoned his child in favor of getting to his Omega’s side to make sure he hadn’t been harmed. Sherlock’s gaze flew to the crawling child and John ran back in frustration. These were the sorts of things that happened to them; their instinctive signals were crossed. John despaired ever being able to healthily raise a child, but he couldn’t deny his and Sherlock’s urge to create one. Hopefully one would be enough and Sherlock would fall barren afterwards or go back on suppressants. 

“What happened?” John asked once he’d retrieved their indignant son.

“The food just repelled me, that’s all.”

“You think?” John asked hopefully.

“So it would seem. Mycroft is unable to watch BG for so long a time as a heat cycle, and is uninterested in the prospect.”

“He hasn’t even _met_ him yet!” John snapped. It was a source of irritation for John, who felt that Mycroft was refusing to accept BG due to his parentage. 

“We’re going to have to find someone else,” Sherlock replied, ignoring him. For an Omega to go on heat they first had to find a blood-related Omega, a Beta packmate, or their own pack Alpha to care for their offspring. Otherwise they would hover on the edge of their heat cycle until it made them ill. 

“We can’t ask Greg to take more time off work. I have a feeling he’s been taking a lot of time and not telling us about it.” John mused.

“He has. It’s something to do with Mycroft. You heard the rumors about him wearing a Submissive’s collar for a while?” 

“You don’t listen to rumors.”

“I listen to the truth behind them, it was Mycroft’s collar.”

“They’re bonded now, and seem to be doing well,” John replied, not willing to betray what little confidence Lestrade had placed in him.

“They’re coping, I suppose, but something is still off. Regardless, we can’t ask Lestrade.”

Later that day Sherlock was able to eat again with gusto, so the threat of heat was once again removed. Sherlock locked himself down in his lab in frustration, leaving John to care for BG for an entire day.

XXXXXXXXXX

“Isn’t that Mary?” John asked, concern in his voice as they watched a man slinking towards her from behind. 

They were in a park full of joggers where many recent thefts had occurred. The police had no luck whatsoever, since the perp was apparently the most ordinary looking man on the planet. Sherlock, however, had managed to identify his next probably attack area using some odd algorithm and the victims stories.

“Who?”

“That Little from a while back? Her Daddy committed suicide and…”

“Yes, yes, right. Her. Hmmm, yes, that looks like her. Almost didn’t recognize her without the frock. Is that a primary school gym uniform?”

They were hunting for a purse-snatcher, who at that very moment made the mistake of snatching Mary’s purse in plain sight of Sherlock and John. Mary, who chased after the robber as well, had been ahead of them and the one to tackle him to the ground and get her purse back. John had then tossed her off and gone after the man instinctively for attacking his pack. Once the man was unconscious he jumped up, snatched Mary against himself, and sucked a subdual mark into her neck. Mary had laughed at his antics; most Beta’s found Alpha posturing utterly hilarious.

“Well, I guess that makes us pack, then.” The easygoing Beta announced. Betas were versatile. They often spanned multiple completely unrelated packs since their own instincts were virtually non-existent. They automatically cared for everyone, but allied themselves with no one. 

“Good,” Sherlock panted, having cuffed the unconscious robber, “What are your work hours like and can you take leave sometime in the near future?”

“I don’t work. I had a sizable inheritance from my real father, which was before Mr. Morsten passed away. He left me mostly mementos. I devote myself to my Daddy’s all day long, but I can ask them for time away if you two need me to chase down more muggers.” 

Mary laughed, John shook his head in amusement, and Sherlock ignored her antics. 

“We need a sitter for my heat cycle.” Sherlock informed. “No idea when it will be, though. Bit off.”

“Suppressants? My cousin had issues with those. Nasty things. Shame there isn’t a better way to cope. Al right, here’s my card. Call me whenever you need me.”

Sherlock stepped off the path and was violently ill. John rushed forward in concern and Mary sighed behind him.

“You two been looking for a Beta for a bit?” Mary asked.

“Yes, why?” John replied as he rubbed soothing circles into Sherlock’s back. 

“He’s about to go on heat. Better get him home _fast_. I’ll wave down a cab.”

Mary rode in the front while Sherlock gulped down bottles of water they’d snatched from a nearby vendor on their way to the cab. He was shaking a bit, but seemed otherwise unconcerned. When they got to the flat Sherlock bolted for the bathroom, but since there was only the sound of running water to be heard John left him be. Instead he snatched up a bag for BG and began packing it as fast as he could. Mrs. Hudson rattled off BG’s schedule and what foods he was allowed to eat. Mary accepted a wet flannel to clean herself up and then donned the baby carrier and plopped their son inside. 

“He’ll be fine. Mrs. Hudson gave me her number and I’ll be in touch with her and your pack Alpha,” Mary soothed when John nearly tugged the boy away from her.

“You’re right, of course. It’s just… he’s never been away for us longer than a scene and we barely know you.”

“I’m pack, right? You Alpha’s have instincts that let you know this sort of thing is safe. He’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry to spring this on you.” John apologized, running a hand through his hair.

“No worries. I have plenty of toys and my house is baby-proofed. Yours isn’t the only pack I have with babies that need minding. I’ll call my Daddy’s when I get home and tell them something came up. They’ll have a huff and get over it.” 

Mary pressed a kiss to his cheek, shouldered the diaper bag, and accepted Mrs. Hudson’s assist out to the car with BG’s bag of supplies. 

John went to search for his Omega Dom, who had left the bathroom at some point during the conversation.

Sherlock was in their bedroom, already panting and sweating, drying off after what must have been a speedy shower. John hurried out of his clothes and they paused, simply studying each other’s bodies before the heat kicked in and removed all thought besides _breed, breed, breed._ Although John and Sherlock remained largely more cognitive during theirs than most couples, it didn’t change the fact that this was only their second shared heat and they were still a relatively young couple despite the time they’d known each other. They were nervous.

“I love you, Sherlock.” John breathed, noting the scent change in the air.

“I need you, John.” Sherlock panted, dropping to all fours as the heat took over fully and fluid began to flow from his suddenly tented entrance. 

John dropped to his knees behind Sherlock, parting his flesh to stare down at the pink, swollen pucker before him. Sherlock’s body never ceased to amaze him, but an Omega in heat was an entirely different sort. His pucker was so swollen it looked more like lips than it’s proper use, and John couldn’t help but to lower his face and press a kiss to that spasming pink hole. It opened a bit for him, tenting completely for breeding, and John was once again in awe. Omegas needed no stretching during heat, their bodies were one big open invitation to thrust inside and come until you couldn’t move anymore.

Sherlock was beginning to snarl at him in frustration, so John obediently slid home, reveling in the feel of Sherlock’s tight body swallowing him hole. He was so much _wetter_ than John recalled, much more than he was when aroused normally, and John gave him a few shallow thrusts to enjoy the slippery feeling before beginning to fuck him in earnest.

“Knot me, you imbecile! What use are you if you can’t give me what I need!” Sherlock roared angrily, but John only smirked. 

“You want me to pull out and fist you instead?”

“Do it and I’ll divorce you!”

“You’re too hot for my cock to ever leave me,” John emphasized his point by pulling out and thrusting his entire fist home in one go. Sherlock howled and came _hard_ , his hips moving without any sense of rhythm or control. 

Once the man had calmed a bit beneath him he pulled himself off of John’s fist and rolled over, laying flat on his back on the floor of their room with his legs tugged up to either side of his chest.

“John,” Sherlock whimpered, the plea clear in his big puppy-dog eyes and pouting full lips. 

John took a glance down at that gaping, twitching hole and thrust inside before he lost it and came _untouched_ across Sherlock’s gorgeous body. He wasn’t going to waste a drop of come. He knotted him instantly, pulling another orgasm out of Sherlock, and then came violently inside of the man after just a few frantic rotations of his hips. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s waste and dropped instantly to sleep. 

_ Omegas. _ John sighed.

Once John was free from his lover’s tight grasp he hurried out to the kitchen to fill containers full of water and carry them into the bedroom for his and Sherlock’s consumption. He grabbed a heat kit - containing vitamins for them both and tasteless food bars for himself – and hurried back into the bedroom. Sherlock wouldn’t eat for the three they were on heat, since Omega’s slept through most of it, but John would need to keep up his energy. 

Sherlock was already stirring a bit, his eyelids fluttering weakly as his hands reached down and ran across his flushed body. Two of Sherlock’s fingers thrust into his body and he moaned desperately.

“John,” Sherlock whimpered. 

John was mesmerized, watching those fingers vanish and reappear around that plump ring. It looked so utterly beautiful- and just a bit naughty- and John wanted a video camera to record this moment so he could watch it every day. 

“John!” Sherlock called, not fully awake, but starting to stir and become frantic without his Alpha to fill his body.

“I’m here, love, I’m here.” John called, scooping Sherlock up and dropping him down on the bed. 

Sherlock thrashed about until John had to hold him down and enter him from behind. It was a tight fit because Sherlock was halfway on his side and his legs were closed. John groaned eagerly, loving this position immediately and hoping he could remember to suggest it at another time. His cock was held in a that vice-like grip so torturously that John almost lost it and came again, but he held himself still, gripping Sherlock’s squirming hips so he couldn’t continue to writhe on his cock. Finally he was calm enough to continue and took up a slow glide, in and out of his dripping lover, until both of them were panting for more. Then John buried himself completely, rolling Sherlock flat onto his belly after making sure his prick wasn’t at a bad angle. John ground his hard-on deep into Sherlock’s body, having to press harder than usual since his full round arse was closed around him as well. It was an amazing feeling, his legs _around_ Sherlock’s for a change, and he marveled at it before focusing solely on satisfying himself and his Omega. Sherlock was unconscious, but his body still required stimulation, so John reached beneath his Omega and cupped the head of his cock as he continued to grind against him. Only when he felt Sherlock empty himself twice did he allow himself to topple into the throws of orgasm. Over and again, John felt himself empty into Sherlock’s body, panting and crying out his pleasure. Alpha’s remained alert during heat, though they usually became feral. John was no exception and leaned down to bite at Sherlock’s neck as his last climax shuddered out of his body.

John greedily snatched at the food bars, devouring them wrapper and all as his mind sunk deeper into the heat-induced mindless state. Luckily their wrappers were made to be digestible for just such an occasion. The next time he was able to remove himself from his Omega he would gently bathe him with a flannel and give him water when he woke and demanded it. His Omega _would_ be strong and Dominant and beautiful and willing to be bred. His Omega _would_ become pregnant with his child. His Omega _would_ spread his pretty white thighs and birth his child. His Omega _would_ press that child to his teat to feed and care for it. His Omega _would_ bend over and demand another cub from him soon after. This was the cycle of life for their kind. It had always been, and it always would be. 

When John came back to himself some days later Sherlock was already bustling around the house, eager to begin his post-heat instinctive habits. John sat up and groaned in pain from the days of near constant sex. Sherlock hurried in to fuss over him, his behavior not the clingy caresses of a Sub, but the firm touch of a Dom. John reveled in it and happily obeyed when he was ordered into the bath, despite the fact he couldn’t walk there himself; he crawled on hands and knees. Sherlock did scrub him down, but it was perfunctory and firm, more like a hospital bath by a nurse than being bathed by a lover. John sighed in bliss. Sherlock drained the tub, wrapped John in a towel once the water was out, and left him lying there. Just as John was starting to drift off he returned with a tray full of sandwiches and a pitcher of water with ice cubs in it.

“You’ll be fine now, right?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Good. Don’t come into the bedroom for a while.”

Sherlock vanished and John stared after him curiously. A moment later he bustled past the bathroom door carrying the spare blankets from the upstairs closet and headed for their bedroom with them.

Sherlock was nesting. 

XXXXXXXXXX

John was floating in that wondrous place that was subspace. Sensations of hot and cold drifted over his body and reminded him that there was no reason to return just yet, despite the loud banging he could hear from somewhere above his head. There was a pause in his beautiful torment, and he squirmed a bit, starting to come back down, when a hot burn started up on his hip once more and he hissed in pleasure and flew back up to his happy place. He could hear voices, and one of them was an Alpha, but it was his pack Alpha so he had no intention of coming back down for that. 

He vaguely noted the feel of his member being sheathed in the familiar taut, moist, cavern of his Omega’s body, but he was far too gone to do much more than thrust instinctively. He felt his knot enveloped and cried out in bliss as his Omega tightened around him over and over again, the pleasure overwhelming him until his own orgasm wrenched through his body, leaving him gasping in delight. 

John came down from subspace slowly to the feel of Sherlock’s gentle hands cleaning the hot wax off of his body. Some parts had hairs tangled in, since Alpha’s had far more body hair than Omega’s did, and the tugs and pinches made John gasp and flounder back into subspace before inching his way back down again. When he finally was able to remember his own name, he was stretched out along their playmat, wrapped in a blanket, in the ‘dungeon’ of 221C with Sherlock gently petting his hair. Once his breathing changed Sherlock pressed a straw to his lips and John drank greedily.

“Any pain?”

“None yet, but give me a minute,” John replied softly, snuggling further into Sherlock’s warm body. 

Sherlock was perfect during aftercare; it was the only time when John was certain that Sherlock truly loved him as Omega tenderness and Dom tendency to be obsessive about aftercare merged into the perfect loving experience. This was the time when Sherlock’s skewed dynamic gave them what they both needed; Sherlock’s inhibitions lowered enough to show John sentiment, and John receptive enough to be vulnerable and open to Sherlock. 

“You were perfect, John. Absolutely gorgeous, taking everything I gave you.”

“I didn’t… leave you unsatisfied, did I?” John asked, Alpha insecurities creeping in, “I was pretty deep in subspace when you hopped on…”

“I am entirely sated, thank you, John. I know you are as well.”

“Braggart.”

“It isn’t bragging if it’s true.”

They cuddled for a while longer, talking gently about what they had enjoyed together and how some things could be improved. John particularly loved bondage, while Sherlock was only partial to it and sometimes forgot to tie John up at all. Sherlock wanted John to ask him for things like that, but in Sub mode John sometimes felt he could not. It was a work in progress, like any relationship, and once they were certain John was in no danger of hitting subdrop and Sherlock had no feelings of guilt, they ascended the stairs.

Gregory Lestrade was sitting on the couch, looking worse for wear, with Mrs. Hudson petting his hand gently. BG was in his carrycot nearby, looking annoyed at the lack of attention but otherwise not interfering. 

“Greg? I thought I’d heard your voice, are you alright?” 

“Not so much, no.” He replied, voice hoarse.

“This is why I ended our session as quickly as I could, John. Mycroft has apparently gone missing. No one knows where he is.”

ME: OMG, Muse, WTF?! You had Mycroft abducted?!  
MUSE: Hahahahaha! Look! A plot bunny! Weeeeee!!  
ME: Wait! That’s not where the story was supposed to go! I don’t even know what comes next! _Hey!!! Listen!!!!_  
MUSE: … … …

[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/62353.html)


	18. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 18

* A description of the naughtiness Sherlock and John were up to last chapter can be found in Give And Take Chapter 8 – there is no Mystrade loving in that chapter so those of you squicked by that can read it without fear of ewwness. It can be read on it’s own with little confusion. There is also more info on the case to follow.

“Oh, god.” John moved instinctively forward, shoving the coffee table out of the way with his foot, and knelt at Lestrade’s feet. Lestrade snatched at him and held him tightly against his chest, breathing in his scent and then pulling back with a huff, “I’m sorry. You need an Omega Sub, not an Alpha Sub.”

“Not your fault,” Lestrade sighed in frustration, petting John’s hair anyway. 

“Don’t look at me,” Sherlock groused, “I’m not crawling around on the floor for you to sniff.”

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson scolded. 

Sherlock gave all and sundry and disgusted look then sat beside Lestrade and let himself be sniffed and licked a bit. 

“Does anyone know what happened? Aren’t there any clues?” John asked, frustrated for his friend.

“They won’t let me back in the house. A maid called the police. The last she knows a woman claiming to be part of his pack was let in under his orders and then they both vanished. All I’ve heard otherwise is that there were no signs of a struggle in the drawing room.” Greg had a strong face on, but anyone who knew him could see his anguish underneath. “I was hoping you’d take a look at things, Sherlock. They might let you in.”

“Who’s on the case?” Sherlock asked.

“Dimmock and MI5.”

“He’ll let me in.”

Sherlock stood and hurried into his coat and scarf. John tugged on a sweater and grabbed a jacket. Lestrade scooped up their child and held him close, sniffing his hair and talking to him softly. BG smelled like Mycroft's brother; it would do Lestrade good to have that scent nearby. 

“We’ll figure it out, Greg,” John said, squeezing his arm soothingly, “Sherlock always figures these things out.” 

“Yeah, but will he _find_ him…no, don’t answer that. I hate it when the family’s of vict… clients… ask me that.”

John gave Lestrade a supportive smile and chased after his hurrying Dom.

John reviewed the case file as they drove to the station, reading it aloud to Sherlock who was reviewing the media and researching god only knows what on the internet. He couldn’t believe the strides Mr. Hauffner was making in France for both Omega and Beta rights. He was leveling the field, making equality a reality instead of a dream. The man was a genius, an Alpha capable of Omega thought, and his loss was going to be a blow to the entire world. He was even trying to find a way to make Beta’s fertile, which sounded more like science fiction to John, but then so did his own gender/dynamic combination. While John read the man’s praises, Sherlock muttered about rainfall, but John had no explanation as to why, then he suddenly demanded the cab turn around and head to the flat the man was pulled out of. The scene was still taped off, with a security detail, but they didn’t even glance at Sherlock and John twice, despite the fact Sherlock was holding a blanket tightly to his chest. He did manage to pass the nesting material off to John as he collected a few samples from the blood and mud soaked scene.

“You’re thinking the mud is from somewhere else?”

“I’m positive it is, now we just have to head over to Bart’s to find out _where_ and we’ll track our abductors turned murderers down to their primary scene. Once there it’s a simple matter of locating Mycroft as well.”

“You think they’re the ones who took him?”

“No ransom’s been made, so the indication is ‘you know we have him, you know who we are, stay away while we do our thing and you’ll get him back in one piece’.”

“So Cuba is trying to keep England off their backs while they fuck with France?” John asked, “By kidnapping Mycroft? Why even pull this mad plan off on English soil in the first place? That’s not very smart.”

Sherlock paused, scowling at the samples he’d collected.

“No, it isn’t,” Sherlock levered himself to his feet and snatched the blanket back from John, pressing it against his aching abdomen. “John… I don’t think the two are related, but we’ve nothing else to go on. I’m running on _assumptions_.”

John wasn’t used to seeing Sherlock look vulnerable, and it hit him then that, feud or not, this was still his brother gone missing. He stepped forward, hand on the back of Sherlock’s head, and pressed their foreheads together.

“We should go to Mycroft’s place then, take a look around.” John offered softly; his Dom wouldn’t appreciate cuddling so he was trying for distraction.

“Yes.”

There was practically no evidence at Mycroft’s place, and they learned nothing they had not learned from Lestrade.

One of the servants had let a woman in who had been claiming to be part of Mycroft’s pack, but she had cleared it with him first. Mycroft had seen this woman’s face, apparently, via a tablet that he carried that he could key into the surveillance camera outside the gates to his home. The servant insisted that Mycroft had seemed to recognize her, but had looked annoyed by her presence. The servant let the Omega woman in, they retired to the Drawing Room, and she was told to come back with tea. She returned to find Mycroft and the woman gone, his tablet sitting on the chair before the fireplace. That was what had alarmed her, she insisted he would no sooner leave the house without his tablet then he would without his shoes and umbrella.

The servant was completely unable to describe the woman and the security footage had been deleted beyond recall, apparently with Mycroft’s passwords.

Sherlock headed to New Scotland Yard after that, bitched out Sally, snarled at Lestrade, clung to or waved around his nesting blanket, and finally stomped off to Bart’s to run the samples of mud he had found. Molly had fluttered around him like an annoying gnat, even managing to get on John’s nerves, until Sherlock had screamed at her to leave before he bound and gagged her. She’d looked more than a bit intrigued, but had hurried off nonetheless.

“Is it just me, or did she look a bit peckish?” John asked Sherlock.

“What concern is it of mine if she’s hungry? I’m trying to find my brother, remember?” Sherlock snapped.

“I meant more that she didn’t look well, Sherlock. Like she’d been on a bender. Harry looks like that sometimes when she’s had too much of whatever her latest vice is.”

“Again, why should I care?”

“Right, never mind then. So. Anything I can do to help?”

“Find me enough chocolate to ward off these cramps and I’ll consider letting you continue to breath.”

John fled the room.

An hour later Sherlock emerged in full ‘I’ve solved the case’ frenetic mode, though his enjoyment was clearly subdued.

“Cuba’s reason for being so out and proud about their crime was simple,” Sherlock babbled to Lestrade over the phone as they rushed to the wharf by the Thames, “they wanted the research to come to light. Their country has the highest Beta birth rate of any in the world, over ¾of the country are incapable of breeding. Inbreeding is becoming such a problem that they have started offering money to have their Omegas bred out to other countries, even trying to use it to reign in tourism, and giving unmated Alpha’s a chance to experience a heat cycle with eager females in exchange for leaving them unbonded. The country is going broke paying for studs so a way to create breedable Betas is pure gold, but not if France continues to keep it under wraps. Enter their plan to make a public scene in England, where free press makes it more likely for word of the research to spread.”

Sherlock paused for breath and John breathed out a compliment, which he raised an appreciative eyebrow to.

“It didn’t work,” Sherlock continued, “in any respect, because the reporters told about the research hadn’t bought it for a second. They’d only run with the kidnapping, completely unaware that the bigger story (for the world) was the research. Then they bungled testing the diplomat’s sperm count by electrocuting him to death. Now their proof that the research was failing due to the diplomat and _not_ his Beta wife was ruined and they hadn’t brought any of it to light. They snatched up Mycroft as a hostage and are probably arranging transport out of the country as we speak.”

John studied Sherlock’s face, noted the lines of worry there, and knew he didn’t believe his own explanation. He tugged at his curls and clutched his nesting blanket, and finally gave in to his Omega side and clasped John’s hand tightly. John raised it to his mouth and kissed it, murmuring praises and comforts and hoping he was being anything besides useless. Sherlock avoided his eyes.

They arrived at the warehouse, where they found the e-stim machine still set up to collect the diplomat’s sperm sample, the faulty outlet it had been plugged into that ended Mr. Hauffner’s life, enough evidence to damn them for eternity, and the entire group of terrorists sitting around scratching their arses in an attempt to figure out how to leave the country now they’d made such a very loud entrance and fucked up their mission.

But no Mycroft in sight.

[CHAPTER NINETEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/62487.html)   



	19. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 19

It was usually John who woke up from nightmares; plagued by Afghanistan, his childhood, the pool, or Sebastian Moran. Then again, it wasn’t usual John who was pregnant, bone weary, and fearing for his brother’s life. So when John, who had traded places with Sherlock in the pacing and sleepless department, heard a scream from their bedroom, he was instantly thumping through the kitchen. Sherlock, however, had met him halfway, BG in arms and both of them babbling in confusion.

“Slow down! Slow down! What happened?” John pushed Sherlock behind him, prepared to kill whatever followed Sherlock through down the hallway. Nothing did.

“I think…I think…”

“You do that often, the question is _what_ you think.”

“I think I had a nightmare.”

John gave Sherlock a startled look and he flushed in embarrassment.

“You don’t have nightmares,” John argued senselessly, “You don’t even dream.”

“Of course I dream, John,” Sherlock insisted, rolling his eyes, “Everyone dreams. It’s a part of the nuerological…”

“Nevermind! My point is you don’t remember them and you never have nightmares. You sleep like a log. I have to hold a mirror to your face to make sure you’re alive.”

“You do that?” Sherlock looked flattered, the bastard.

“Shut it. The point is you don’t have nightmares.”

“Well, evidently I do.”

“Okay. Let’s get BG a bottle and you can tell me what you dreamt.”

“I’d rather not.” Sherlock groused as he glided into the nearest kitchen chair.

“It’s okay. You listen to my nightmares all the time.” John reminded as he ran the tap for warm water.

“I also mock you for them. No thank you, I’d rather not experience turnaround as fair play in this instant.”

“I’m not going to mock you, you great git. Just tell me.” John sighed, putting the kettle on as well.

“I dreamt about that little girl in Italy,” Sherlock whispered.

“The one whose mother was shot during the Vatican Cameos?”

“Yes.”

“What about her?”

“She was shot instead,” Sherlock tucked BG protectively against himself and John’s heart melted.

“BG is fine. I’m sure that little girl is, too, but if you want I can call some of our contacts there and find out.”

“Do that,” Sherlock ordered, then snatched the bottle from John’s hand and marched back to their bedroom, head held high, as though he were the bloody Queen of England.

The git.

XXXXXXXXXX

Days later and they still had made no progress on locating Mycroft. Sherlock examined the drawing room, the yard outside, the front and back yards, and eventually the entire house. Soon his nesting was getting so extreme that he demanded John return him home in the middle of examining the drawing room for the fourth time. He went home, bolted into their room, slammed and locked the door, and from the sound of it was moving furniture around. John knew better than to disturb him, but when the mad Omega opened the door and pushed the entire dresser out into the hall, he felt he had to say something.

“Need a hand with that?” John cringed, that _hadn’t_ been what he’d meant to say.

“No! Leave it!” Sherlock barked, and slammed the door shut again.

A barricade. Sherlock was securing their room in expectation of delivering their child under hostile conditions. John was on his feet, clamoring over the bed, and into the room before he could properly think it through. Sherlock growled at him, but didn’t attempt to attack him. He was changing BG on a thin mat on their bed. BG was gurgling happily.

“What aren’t you telling me?” John asked, real fear in his voice, “Why do you feel the need to… to… _fortify_ our home?!”

“My brother was abducted by a _pack member_. You don’t think that elicits a bit of distrust?”

“He can’t have been. Pack member’s can’t do that, especially not Omega pack members.”

“It’s the only thing that adds up, John.”

“Then you’re wrong. A pack member wouldn’t abduct another Omega. They just wouldn’t.”

“They would if that Omega was pregnant and they were incapable of having a child, especially if they knew that Omega didn’t _want_ the child they were carrying.”

“What… what are you saying? You think they’re going to come after us? You don’t want our child?” John took a step back, his stomach clenching painfully.

“ _No_ , must you constantly listen without _hearing_? Mycroft is pregnant!”

“You… you weren’t supposed to know that. Lestrade locked the nursery so you wouldn’t find out.” John stated, sighing in frustration, “He was supposed to keep you out of it.”

“I snuck away from him, picked the lock, and I found the oil Mycroft was using to disguise his scent.” Sherlock stated, giving John a look of disgust.

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Damn it, Sherlock, I’ve been letting you search that house because I know you _need_ to do this, that you need to feel like you’re helping find him, but I’m not going to let you endanger our child by getting yourself worked up!”

“Getting myself… _My brother is missing!_ ”

BG let out an agonized scream and Sherlock scooped him up, bouncing him gently to sooth him.

“Sherlock he’s… he’s not missing.” John explained once BG settled again.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, eyes narrowed.

“Lestrade put it together once he found the nursery, about two days ago, but we didn’t want to tell you… put BG down, you need to sit for this.”

Sherlock put the soothed child in his playpen in the living room and handed him some toys to play with, then they both sat on the couch and John took a deep, frustrated breath.

“Mycroft is on his way to Venezuela with Molly Hooper. He’s getting an abortion.” John said in one go, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate being coddled.

“Wrong.” Sherlock countered, simply stating the word as though it were obvious.

“Sherlock, Lestrade let MI5 know about the pregnancy and that Mycroft hadn’t wanted to have kids. They did some electronic digging and found he’s siphoned off some money into an offshore account. He’s run for it with a pack member to keep him from going into subdrop. He’s going to abort the baby and probably send for Lestrade later, once he’s stabilized a bit. He’s a wanted man, now. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock sat stock still and John waited for the fallout.

An hour later Sherlock had shifted into his thinking pose and John was still waiting.

“Molly is gone, too?” Sherlock asked some odd hours later.

“She reported to work for a couple of days after Mycroft went missing, but when one of MI5 went to question her about plane tickets bought in her name she bolted into a closet at the morgue and disappeared up a shaft inside it. No one’s seen her since. The other plane ticket was bought in Harry’s name, but she’s at her place in Dublin, high as a kite and with no idea what Molly’s been up to. We figure they’re using her ID to leave the country since Mycroft’s would raise alarms.”

“Did the MI5 agent think she looked ‘peckish’?”

“Molly, you mean? Peckish?”

“Like she wasn’t well?”

“No one mentioned.”

“Is anything missing from Barts?”

“You mean did she steal anything? Yeah, they did inventory once she vanished and found lots of stuff had gone missing.”

“They’re going to need to dig up every corpse she’s examined since my furpile and re-examine them.”

“What? Why?”

“Because Molly is on drugs, Harry is doing them with her, and they’ve both abducted Mycroft.”

“Sherlock…” John started with a frustrated sigh.

“You’ve never had reason to doubt me before, why are you doing it now?” Sherlock asked, turning his head to glare at John.

“Because I’m not entirely certain that you’re in the best frame of mind.”

“Then I suggest you re-evaluate your own, because I have never _ever_ allowed anything to stand in the way of reason and logic. Not my sentimental feelings about you, not our son, not my current pregnancy, not drugged fog on the moor in Dartmore, and certainly not my bothersome older brother.”

John watched Sherlock’s face, noting the angry twitch in one eyebrow and his nostril flaring, before standing and picking up his mobile from the table.

“Lestrade? Can you come over? Sherlock’s got some news, and it’s nowhere near what we were thinking.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John felt utterly helpless. He couldn’t comfort Lestrade and he was struggling to keep Sherlock from doing something dangerous while pregnant. The man wanted to fly to Venezuela to continue searching for his brother. He tried to convince him the flying was better left to Lestrade, but had no idea if the man was going to partake in the search; when they’d spoken to him he’d looked utterly uninterested in life and living. John had hesitated to leave him, but he had to keep track of Sherlock and the man had hopped in a cab and _left_ again.

Finally Sherlock agreed that breaking into Molly and Harry’s flats was a more intelligent idea. It turned out he was right, because Molly’s flat yielded her diary.

“Mollyverse?” John asked, blinking at the baby blue cover that had been decorated with doodles and bits of glued on fake rhinestones, “It looks like a pre-teen’s diary. That’s got to be ancient.”

“It is and it isn’t, look at the wear and tear, or lack there of. It’s nearly full, but it goes back a decade. She didn’t have much to write, but she kept doing it anyway. She felt misunderstood, apparently, and that she was unimportant to anyone. Anyone accept your sister.”

“Then Harry really is involved. I know they were making out at the furpile, but I didn’t realize they’d kept in touch.”

“She describes Harry as her ‘consolation prize’.” Sherlock informed.

“That’s… a bit not good. What did she want instead?” John snapped, feeling a bit of brotherly protectiveness slip in.

“Me.”

“Oh, yeah. Well that makes sense,” John laughed.

“Hmm. John, she knew you were my Perfect Match from the day we met. How did she know that?”

“It was bloody obvious to everyone except me, Sherlock. You knew, too.” John laughed at himself.

“Not that soon, I didn’t figure it out until the pool!” Sherlock looked furious at being out-deduced by Molly.

“What does it say about Mycroft?”

“Nothing we don’t already know, but… John, this is bad, I’m afraid. You’re going to be very upset,” Sherlock stated, lowering the book and giving John that look that said he didn’t know what he was going to do once John resorted to sentiment.

“What is it?” John asked, bracing himself. If even Sherlock knew it was upsetting then someone was about to die.

“They’re dying. They’re both dying. I’m sorry.”

John sat down heavily on Molly’s bed and tried not to laugh. He’d always said Harry would die young, and that she’d take some poor soul out with her, if she kept doing the nonsense she did. Now it turned out he was right and Harry’s reach was further than he’d thought. Not content to destroy herself, she was taking down Molly, Mycroft, Lestrade, Sherlock, and an innocent unborn baby.

“What now?” He asked, looking up at his Dom for comfort and guidance. Sherlock stepped forward, gripping the hair at the back of his head to physically ground John’s emotions. It worked, and he felt himself pulling back to reality with a snap.

“Now we search Harry’s flat. Or I do. You can safety word out of this, John. I won’t make you go.”

John took a deep, steadying breath, “I’m going. She’s my sister. I have to know.”

Sherlock nodded, pressed a kiss to John’s forehead, and led the way out of the flat with his familiar abruptness. John took solace in his customary behavior and sped after him, inexorably drawn to the man who ruled his life and heart with an iron magnifying glass.

[CHAPTER TWENTY](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/62936.html)


	20. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 20

*See “Give and Take” chapter 10 for Mycroft’s harrowing experience. No Mystrade sex in that chapter. See MollyVerse for explanation on Molly & Harry along with their version of events (it’s a very short wordcount and has no sex).

Harry’s flat in Dublin was clearly unoccupied, and Sherlock told John he doubted she had spent much time there of late. It seemed she had been residing with Molly… or in the bars and opium dens near Molly’s flat.

“According to her diary,” Sherlock stated, waving the shiny thing around, “Molly hasn’t been doing much besides Harry and illegal substances. When they found out they were dying they decided that if the hospitals wouldn’t provide them with organs to replace the ones they’d destroyed then they were going to get them through less legal means. That’s when Harry pointed out that my brother had seemed awfully wealthy at my furpile. Harry wanted to get hold of him at gunpoint and force him to pay up enough money for them to flee the country, get someplace that sold organs, and have the surgeries done. The plan never included abducting Mycroft, though, only holding him at gunpoint in his home until he transferred the money. My bet is Mycroft has most of his money in stocks and bonds, which isn’t immediately accessible – at least not in the quantities they needed. Once Molly, who was going to visit under pretense of providing emotional support during Mycroft’s secret abortion (which I do _not_ believe he had done) found out that little tidbit, she decided to take him to Harry to figure out what to do next. Then she simply acted as normal around us until someone caught on. Her notations end there.”

“So we should find evidence of Mycroft being right here in this flat, but why didn’t MI5 find it when they came to question Harry about her girlfriend?”

“He was never here. Molly’s diary says he was kept at another flat full of meth-head Beta’s, locked in a bathroom, apparently. She doesn’t state where, only that it was nearby. Our goal is to find that other location.”

John and Sherlock split up, searching the flat from top to bottom until John became anxious because of all of the used needles lying about. Then he promptly herded a protesting Sherlock out into the hall and they used their laptops to allow John to scour the apartment with Sherlock watching.

“There! Go back! A scrap of paper by the bed,” Sherlock ordered.

“It says,” John lowered the laptop to the floor so he could peer at Harry’s wobbly writing better, “52 Evergreen Terrace 1A. Didn’t we pass that building on our way here?”

“It’s a start. I’ll call Lestrade and he can get the locals on it, we’ll need a warrant to get in anyway. Keep looking.”

“It’s not like you to follow the letter like this,” John commented curiously.

“I’m not risking them getting away. They’ve been very clever so far; I won’t have them using a loophole to keep us away from evidence. Besides, I doubt you’ll let me go climbing into a meth lab while carrying your cub.”

“Not a chance in hell…o.” John turned his reprimand into an exclamation as he tugged a familiar book out of Harry’s bedside drawer. It was the address book he had given her for her birthday not long ago.

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked in confusion, unable to see what he was looking at.

“Here’s an address book, and wonder of wonder’s it’s actually filled out,” John grinned, paging through it.

“Bring it at once!” Sherlock snapped, and John happily hurried out of the flat to obey his Dom.

Evergreen Terrace turned out to be a dud, though they did question some of Harry’s friends there. No one in her address book worked out, either, though Sherlock noted a page was ripped out under “W”. Sherlock tackled the phone directory and search every “W” name in the phone book until he came up with three people living within a few blocks of Harry’s flat; well within Molly’s parameters.

“Joe and Marcy Whelan, Seamus Wolph, and Geneva Wylliams,” Sherlock read to the police who shook their heads and said it wasn’t enough to go on.

John knew by Sherlock’s pressed lips that the ‘loop hole avoidance’ was going right out the window. Sure enough, he soon found himself let into the Whelan flat by Sherlock’s handy lock picking skills. Sherlock remained outside, waiting impatiently for John and his Sig to subdue anyone inside. He came out quickly, though, and shoed Sherlock further down the hall after shutting the door behind him.

“Family of four, no sign of drugs or drug use. I don’t think that’s it.”

Geneva Wylliams was also a bust, and John very nearly got caught when she turned out to be awake in her bedroom watching T.V. Luckily his mask kept her from identifying them, though Lestrade texted Sherlock and told him the police knew what he was up to and weren’t thrilled.

Cue Seamus Wolph, who had a lab in his living room and two full baths in his rather charming, if illegally occupied, flat. He and his girlfriend were passed out in the bedroom, apparently having just crashed, so John explored to his heart’s content. After collecting the samples they needed and taking photos with his mobile, John left the door to their place open and knocked on a neighbors door to alert them to the drug issue.

“Have you seen Seamus’ living room?” Sherlock asked in a huff when the neighbor opened their door, “His doors wide open and there’s _fumes_ coming out of it!”

The neighbor, too curious for his own good, hurried down the hall and swore at the sight. Sherlock had chosen that door because he was convinced that the doormat indicated the person had kids. Apparently he was right.

“That looks dangerous! My kids are sleeping not three doors down! Have you called the police?” The agitated Omega man asked.

“No, do you think we should?” Sherlock asked as though uncertain. An Alpha was hot on the Omega’s heals, wondering why her bondmate was wandering about the hall at night.

“You’re… you’re pregnant!” The Alpha sniffed at Sherlock and then snapped at John, “Get him out of here! Now! I’m calling the police and get those lousy drug bums tossed out once and for all! That flats supposed to have been vacated months ago when they didn’t renew their lease. What’s this city coming to that a landlord can’t even evict a bunch of methheads!”

“Disgusting,” John agreed, herding Sherlock towards the elevators while the Alpha chased her bondmate back into their own flat and started dialing the phone.

“Probable cause established,” Sherlock chuckled, and endured John sniffing at his neck and abdomen on the ride down to the ground floor, “I’m fine, John, I was careful not to breath near the door.”

“Can’t be to careful, we should get you to a hospital and…”

Sherlock’s phone went off and they both stilled as Sherlock paled at Lestrade’s words on the phone.

“They’ve gotten security footage from an airport in Venezuela. Molly and Harry were spotted disembarking and hiring help to have a giant crate hauled out the building a day ago. MI5 confirmed the crate had been part of their luggage order from here to there. Marked ‘fragile’ and to be kept in the heated cargo hold. They paid a small fortune to move it.”

“The organs? No, that would be cold storage not heated, wait… no… Mycroft?!”

“The crate was easily large enough for a man.” Sherlock confirmed, carefully keeping himself expressionless.

John had no qualm about expressing his own and Sherlocks bottled emotions: “Not a _pregnant_ man who needs fluids, and food, and _air!!”_

John tugged Sherlock out of the elevator and packaged him into the nearest cab, holding him tightly and stroking his belly.

“I’m alright John, and we can’t give up on him now. Mycroft clearly still has a use to them, or they wouldn’t have taken such care. They had to have had an air supply in there for him.”

“They were drug addicts, Sherlock, you don’t know what they’re like. Harry sometimes forgot to take off her pants to piss!”

“I was one once, if you’ll remember, and they have been notoriously clever so far, no one even caught them on film leaving Dublin, and that’s quite a feat. They’ve dropped their guard now they’re in a third world country, which means we’re going to be able to track them.”

“Not ‘we’, Sherlock. You’re not going over there. You can’t fly in your condition,” John argued, feeling himself hardening in anticipation of a row with his stubborn Omega.

“You blokes going somewhere?” The cabbie interrupted.

“Dublin Airport,” Sherlock stated.

“Liberty Inn,” John stated. The cabbie took a whiff of the air and decided John was in charge based on his gender, he turned out and headed towards their hotel. John tried not to look smug, but his victory was short lived.

“ **Dublin Airport**.” Sherlock snarled, and the cabbie turned the vehicle around so fast they nearly had an accident.

“Damn it, Sherlock!” John started, but felt Sherlock clench his hair at the nape of his neck quite painfully.

“Do you want to be dom’d too? I’ve done my research; it’s harmless to fly this early. I’ll be fine. In fact, I’ll be much safer than _my pregnant brother_.”

John fell silent. He knew he was being impossible, but his every instinct was demanding he take Sherlock home and bundle him into bed. His erection throbbed in his pants and he palmed it to try and relieve some of the pressure. Biology was agonizing.

“I’ll call Mary,” John stated as way of apology, “Let her know we’ll be gone some odd days.”

“She’s been rather patient about all of this,” Sherlock acknowledged charitably, for him.

“Yes, well, she knows what’s going on. Being a Beta and all she’s wired to help where she can.”

“Thank god for Beta’s,” Sherlock nodded firmly, “The rest of us have got our heads up our arses half the time, or are being led around by our dicks.”

John laughed and the tension in the cab eased a bit. Two hours later they secured a flight to Venezuela, John grateful that their shots were kept up to date due to Sherlock’s profession, and Sherlock bought a few odds and ends at a gift shop so they’d have things with them that they hadn’t packed ahead of time. He also called Mary himself to listen to BG babble and coo over the phone. It was absolutely hilarious seeing the great Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, reduced to baby talk on a mobile in the middle of an airport.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Once in Venezuela they set about finding the hired hand that had assisted the women with the crate presumably containing Mycroft. They were still trying to find the bloke when Lestrade showed up and pulled in the local police force to help. A threat to a pregnant Omega was being taken very seriously and they had almost complete cooperation.

Lestrade was trying to joke and look positive, but his grin didn’t reach his eyes, and John fought back the urge to kneel at his feet to comfort his pack Alpha. The man needed them focused at the moment.

“We’ve just let the local boys loose on the airport armed with that grainy fucking picture. Hopefully the fellow we saw helping them with their luggage was a regular porter.”

“The children say he was, but they haven’t seen him since. We may be looking for a body.” Sherlock stated frankly.

John watched the color drain from Lestrade’s face and sighed in frustration at Sherlock’s inability to watch his mouth.

“Bit not good?” Sherlock asked him.

“Bit not good, yeah, you want to lay off the mentioning of bodies for a bit?” John ground out.

That nearly sparked an argument which Lestrade put his foot down on and asked Sherlock if he could find someone to supply them with a better picture or a sketch. Sherlock took off at a trot and John hurried after, trying not to trip him up again with his nervous hovering. Honestly, he wished they could all just crawl into their bed on Baker Street and be safe with BG, hell even with Lestrade and Mycroft. One big ball of pregnancy hormones, Alpha protectiveness, and babies galore, but he had a healthy bondmate and two healthy cubs (well 1.5) and Lestrade was barely keeping on his feet. They had to find Mycroft fast.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock found a street artist and the group of children set to arguing out what the man looked like. In less time than one of Lestrade’s professionals, the teenage amateur artist turned out a picture of a local man who’s facial structure accurately matched the worthless picture they had. Sherlock seemed sure of it, so they ran it on the news, asking for information of the whereabouts of the man in questioning of a kidnapping that he may have unknowingly abetted. They stressed he was not in danger of prosecution so long as he turned himself in immediately. They even aired that a pregnant Omega was the one in danger. That would put the entire city on red alert for this one man.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Roberto De LaCruz sat before them with a stuffy nose and a raging fever. He had been missing from work due to illness, not death, and John had stubbornly refused to allow Sherlock to go near him. He himself was leaning far back and scrubbing his hands with sanitizer almost every ten minutes. Lestrade finally kicked him out because he was being disruptive and he and Sally handled the interview along with a local officer. John hovered outside the interview room and watched the conversation through the T.V. monitor; they didn’t have a one-way mirror in the room.

He gave them everything he knew, from the weight of the crate, to the fact it felt like the contents were ‘wobbling around’ to the vehicle he loaded it in, to the people he saw. Unfortunately he got no identifying numbers from the vehicle and he mostly stared at Molly and Harry since he was an unbonded Alpha.

“Nothing and nowhere,” Sherlock growled, though that wasn’t exactly true. Now they put out an APB for a truck of that description.

They had been in Venezuela for 16 hours and it felt like it had been days. Once Lestrade staggered out of the interview John made him wash his hands and face in the nearby loo and dragged him- with aid of Sally and Sherlock- protesting all the way back to their hotel. He tossed the two mattresses down on the floor, covered them with blankets and pillows, pulled off Lestrade’s shoes and jacket, and tugged them all into a furpile. Sherlock was the only available Omega, but he took to his role like glue, snuggling Lestrade’s face against his flat belly and softly telling him where Mycroft’s baby would be developmentally at that moment. A sleeping pill slipped into his water finally knocked the man out and Sherlock slept soundly within his arms while Sally took first watch so John could get a nap in.

“Need some Betas?” John yawned.

“None of ours to be had here, and I don’t feel like making friends,” Sally replied.

John gave her a lopsided grin and snuggled up to his bondmate to sleep. Soon. Soon they would have Mycroft back, too.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/62988.html)


	21. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 21

Lestrade awoke with an agonized cry that put them all on high alert. John couldn’t imagine the pain the man was in being separated from his beloved for this long. Since Lestrade and Mycroft were a Perfect Match their scent bond would never fade the way regular bondmates who were separated would; their hormones and pheromones had literally changed at bonding. This was both good and bad; good because it meant no matter how long he was away, no other Alpha could claim Mycroft as unbonded; bad because it meant they would become clinically depressed, fall ill, and die if kept apart too long.

“No word since you went to sleep,” John said trying to address the Alpha’s largest concern.

“You had no right!” Lestrade sobbed futilely, referring to the pills they’d slipped him.

“We had no _choice_. You needed sleep,” John replied soothingly.

“You had no **right!”** Lestrade raged.

John’s head throbbed, he registered himself crying out in pain, and then he was down, palms to the ground, forehead resting on his fingers, and entire body tucked up into _saikeirei._

_ John heard his pregnant Omega snarl, but was helpless to move towards him since the Alpha in question was  _ _ their _ _ Alpha.  _

_ “ **Release him!** ” Sherlock snarled, which was a ridiculous demand since he could just as easily let John up, but John knew his reasons. He hated to John in  _ _ saikeirei;  _ _ he claimed it made him physically ill. He wasn’t going to take responsibility for it. _

_ “John, you can stand. I’m sorry,” Lestrade called out, his voice pained. _

_ John got shakily to his feet; not meeting Lestrades eyes, and tried to regain some of his dignity. He was hard as a rock from being Dom’d and there was no comfort to be had since Lestrade was in so much pain. _

_ “Shit,” Lestrade squirmed out from under Sherlock’s loosened grasp, and to John’s shock, crawled over to him submissively to ask forgiveness. John’s fear left him in an instant and he dropped to the floor and into his pack Alpha’s arms.  _

_ “I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t mean it,” Lestrade all but whimpered, and John found himself tilting his neck in offering. Lestrade suckled on it, gentle but firm, and John sighed in relief at the reassuring contact of a Dom he trusted almost as much as his own. Lestrade rubbed his own spontaneous erection against him in response and John pressed his back. He heard Sherlock sigh in relief somewhere nearby. _

_ Lestrade’s phone went off and everyone bolted for it at once, Sally and John knocking heads comically. _

While John was still rubbing his head and seeing stars, Lestrade read off the message.

“They’ve found a compound with vehicles that match the description of the one we’re looking for. They’re about to infiltrate it, but there’s a smell of… of blood… and they’re taking precautions in case it turns into a hostage situation. We can still get down there before they start if we hurry.”

They all bolted for the door in various stages of undress, piling through and tugging garments into place. Sally drove and the rest of them held their breath in anticipation. John thought he heard Lestrade whispering Mycroft’s name, but he couldn’t be sure. If he were in the Alpha’s shoes he’d be praying to every diety known to man.

_Come to think of it, why not?_

John closed his eyes, leaning into the comfort of his Dom’s presence, and prayed for all he was worth.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

They missed the raid due to a few wrong turns on the narrow unmarked roads, the GPS guiding them by compass point instead of actual streets. When they finally arrived everyone was standing around waiting for El Gran Detective. They went completely hushed when Sherlock disembarked, though a few motioned to their heads in apparent search of his hat. Sherlock ignored it and John tried not to snicker.

Sherlock stormed the place, tossing people out whose faces annoyed them and yanking a few people in. John was surprised that Sally Donovan was on the list of people who he allowed in, but considering he was nesting just getting him here without a blanket or two was a plus. Apparently his pack members had now become security blankets of sorts. John was relieved, having Sally tag along after Sherlock meant he could step aside and actually be of assistance. Sure enough, Sherlock set him to task and John dutifully examined the bodies on the floor. Sally told him in a whisper that Harry was in a specific room and pointed it out. John felt the floor drop out, but she gripped his arm tightly, bringing him back with the small twinge of pain.

“I’ll just… I’ll look out here.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll keep an eye on the Freak.”

“Sally!”

“Sorry, sorry, Sherlock. I’ll keep an eye on Sherlock.”

John knelt back down and started examining the bodies in the room, coordinating his efforts with the other’s. When he found a note in a Beta’s pocket he called for Sherlock to take a look at it.

“Bring it here!” Sherlock called… from the room Harry was in.

“Can’t. Sorry. Can you come here?” John asked, trying to keep his voice level.

Sherlock peered out, confusion on his face, and then walked over to John.

“Why couldn’t you come in when I called you?” Sherlock asked, looking peeved.

John straightened out, opened his mouth, and suddenly realized if he answered Sherlock he’d break down.

“Cinnamon,” John whispered, trying not to spit out the stink that went with it. A nearby Alpha guard looked up in concern but no one cleared out so John assumed he hadn’t let out a full wave.

“But… I…” Sherlock looked completely stumped, but he quickly brushed it aside, “What did you want to show me?”

John handed the note he’d found over and Sherlock brightened a bit.

“It reads: ‘I am being held hostage by the Omega’s requesting transplants. They have threatened to kill my unborn child and myself. Please help me escape. I will make sure you are compensated for your troubles.’ Have you found any others like this? He would have tried more than once if he wasn’t caught the first time.”

“Still looking,” John replied dutifully.

“Do that. Harry and Molly are both dead, Molly during surgery- which I suppose I’ll have someone _else_ take a look at- the other by…” Sherlock paused and leaned close to whisper to John, “Assisted suicide. We must keep that from the police, John. I believe Mycroft did it. His handkerchief was used to clean sick from Harry’s face and they were both tucked in. A pregnant Omega would do that due to nesting instincts.”

“I understand,” John replied, swallowing his tears down once more.

“I saw some tracks outside, I’m going to get a look at them now. That’s clearly the more important part, trying to find where Mycroft is now.”

Sherlock paused before turning and pressed a kiss to John’s cheek. John gave him a wane smile. Later he’d explain himself to Sherlock. Later he’d remind his neurotic Omega it was his sister in there. For now they needed to focus on Sherlock’s sibling who was quite possibly still alive.

John continued his search and found two more notes on two other Betas. Yet another Beta had a creepy photo of Mycroft sleeping. Further search revealed three more photos, one of Harry sleeping, one of Molly sleeping, and one of Harry and Molly standing close together and staring into each other’s eyes lovingly. Without thinking John pocketed the photos; he turned the notes into evidence.

Lestrade strode over, on the edge of a panic attack and John did his best to keep him going. He told him about the note, leaving out the part about a threat to the baby and Mycroft. Lestrade looked hopeful until he saw them opening a freezer. John recalled the case he was thinking of, and the horror of finding Omega’s chopped up in freezers at a restaurant.

“Greg, focus, we’re in Venezuela, not England. Different case. These guys were organ runners, they’ll have freezers.”

Lestrade was hyperventilating and he saw a few people start towards him. He waved them off and gave Lestrade a shake to get him to focus.

“Greg! Organs, Greg! Remember? They were selling organs. He won’t be in there. He just won’t.”

Lestrade stilled his breathing then and gave John a tortured look that pierced him to the core. A moment later a weak smile tried to cover the unshed tears in his eyes.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course not. He’d never stand for it.”

“Not the Mycroft I know,” John laughed a bit, but he doubted Lestrade heard him or much else he’d said.

Sherlock rushed over then, looking excited, but Sally was in full Alpha guard mode and cut him off before he could explain himself.

“The Freaks found something,” Sally chirped.

“Stop calling him that!” John snapped.

“What is it?” Lestrade asked, hurrying to intercept Sherlock and nearly slipping in a slick spot.

“One of the vehicles is missing,” Sherlock launched into his explanation, “There’s oil where it sat regularly and bloody tracks belonging to a man Mycroft’s height, weight, and stride headed to where it was parked. There’s also a shotgun missing from that gun cabinet over there along with a case of bullets. Top that off with supplies taken from the refrigerator two doors down. He’s made a run for it. Uninjured as far as I can tell from his gait.”

Lestrade gave a whoop of delight and headed out the door towards his car, shouting over his shoulder.

“Find me that truck, Sherlock!”

Sherlock was about to follow him when John tugged him to a stop.

“I found these on that Beta there,” John whispered, palming the photos and passing them to Sherlock. Sherlock turned and pretended to straighten John’s collar, glancing at the photo’s in his hand as he did. He slipped them back into John’s pocket.

“They weren’t going to let them go,” Sherlock explained, “that’s why no one responded to Mycroft’s pleas for help. The three of them were going to be sold off as breeding stock.”

“They’d have never survived! Mycroft’s part of a Perfect Match, and Harry and Molly…” John trailed off. Homosexuals couldn’t be Perfect Matches, could they?

“It hardly matters now. I saw no sign of Mycroft being escorted by anyone. He got away, hopefully scott free. Come along, John. The game is on!”

John hurried after his animated Omega, fully aware that he was getting a bit of hope for the first time in ages. Still, he couldn’t help himself. As he neared the exit to the smugglers compound he glanced back towards the room his sister and her lover lay dead in.

John felt torn. On one hand he didn’t want to see her this way, or Molly who had been like a kid sister to him. On the other hand he felt it would be horribly disrespectful to simply walk away.

John’s feet moved of their own volition and he stepped into what was apparently a crude surgery. He approached the table and stared down at the two women. They were entwined together in what appeared to be sleep, with a sheet gently tucked in around their bodies and a pillow beneath their heads, and the sick had definitely been cleaned up from Harry’s face; just as Sherlock had described. John could see that one stray strand that always drove Harry mad had been gently tucked behind her ear. She wouldn’t have done that; she just blew it off of her face and gave it an upward glare. Harry’s lips were touching Molly’s as though in a farewell kiss, and this was clearly also posed, as was the careful way Molly had been wrapped in her surgery gown.

Mycroft had treated them, as pack should, making sure they were comfortable before leaving, despite everything they had done to him. Had he understood them in the end? Had he analyzed the carefree daughter Harry had once been, crushed under her father’s demands that she be ‘normal’? Had he seen Molly’s constantly broken heart, crushed under the heels of so many men and women that she no longer saw her own worth? Had Mycroft known that Harry’s favorite color was mud brown, despite John’s argument that mud brown was not even a _real_ color? Had he deduced Molly’s obsession with cats and fountain pens?

John didn’t realize he was sobbing out loud until Sherlock turned him around and tugged him close.

“It’s all right, John. Hush, my dear. It’s over. She can’t hurt anymore. Neither of them can. Hush. I’ve got you, now. Hush.”

[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/63259.html)


	22. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 22

John was having trouble focusing on everything around him. His mind kept slipping back to the compound and Harry’s still form.

_Every day’s a bad day_  
In the service of the Queen.  
Harry sitting down to Christmas dinner and calmly introducing her girlfriend as more than just a friend. “This is my lover, Kate.” 

Mycroft must not have known where he was going when he left, because the path they followed went down multiple dead ends before backtracking and trying another road. He was moving steadily north, though, and they kept trying to find his main path. Eventually the GPS cut out, so Sally put the radio on to try and figure out what he problem was.

_On the good days they come back,  
with wounds to dress and clean.  
Harry running towards the house full tilt, screaming at the top of her 5 year old lungs. She had a scrape on her knee and was certain it would kill her if it went ‘septicus’._

“A hurricane? Seriously?” Lestrade punched the door handle beside him, but only earned himself another bruise.

Lestrade’s phone ringing pulled John out of his nightmare and he peered over Lestrade’s shoulder just as he read what he was seeing.

“Unknown number? I thought I saved all the detectives numbers,” Lestrade wondered aloud.

“Might be a subordinate calling. Someone who has a moment,” Sally suggested.

“Lestrade… Hello? Anyone there? Damn reception…” Lestrade hung up the phone grouchily, but remained staring at it contemplatively.

“Wait till we have a clear signal, then try,” John suggested lamely from the back.

“Yeah, probably just…”

The phone rang again, so Lestrade answered it once more, but now he sounded tense, as though he were expecting something: “Lestrade… Oh my god.”

Sally slammed on the breaks and they came to a complete stop, the entire car deathly silent.

_Bad term, John._

“Where are you? _How_ are you?” Lestrade pleaded, his eyes turning towards Sherlock’s as though the Omega could solve this problem for him as well. Sherlock unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned forward to listen.

John distinctly heard a sob over the phone and his blood ran cold.

_Every days a bad day…_

“Talk to me, you bastard.” Lestrade growled, “And know if you’ve hurt my Omega I will kill you. Slowly.”

Mycroft answered. John couldn’t hear his words, but he recognized his voice. He was at least alive.

“ _My_.” Lestrade moaned, putting his hand over his eyes to hide the tears. John reached out and gripped a shoulder. Sally put her forehead against the steering wheel, her shoulder’s shaking with silent sobs.

“I’ve been lost, too,” Lestrade replied to something Mycroft had said, then laughed a bit as the man apparently taunted him back, “Neither do I. A storm is rolling in and the fucking GPS lost its signal. Sherlock says if we don’t find wherever you’ve driven off to before the storm hits we won’t find the trail at all. There are about a million roads out here and 90% of them are dead ends.”

Lestrade’s head rose and he gave Sherlock a hopeful look.

“He says he can tell us how he got where he is, the right paths without all the backtracking,” Lestrade offered.

“We have to get _to_ the correct path first,” Sherlock pointed out, “Right now we aren’t even on one of his trails. Put it on speaker, let me here his directions starting at the compound. I should be able to extrapolate from that.”

Lestrade switched it to speaker and they all took in a relieved breath at the sound of Mycroft’s voice, shaky but otherwise collected, relaying the correct path from the compound to his location as though it were the simplest thing. Sally turned the car in the direction Sherlock told her and they started down another path… only to hit a dead end.

“Shit!” Sally swore, punching the dash.

“What is it with Alpha’s constantly beating up inanimate objects while frustrated?” Sherlock huffed.

“It’s completely beyond me,” Mycroft intoned, “You’d think they’d have enough with pounding on _us_.”

Sherlock smiled at John, relief in his eyes at hearing his brother’s snide comments, and John hugged him briefly as Sally backed up to try again. Three more false starts and the phone signal cut out.

“I should have had him relay it all to me at once.” Sherlock stated, his eyes wide and frightened.

“Don’t blame yourself,” John soothed.

Lestrade went silent, staring at the phone. He plugged it in and spent the next several hours calling that same number over and again while Sally and Sherlock continued to search for the right path without the GPS’s compass to guide them. It went straight to voicemail each time.

Then the storm rolled in and their immediate problem became staying alive. Sally refused to stop driving until they slammed into a tree trunk, then Lestarde promptly abandoned the vehicle, intending on walking. John held Sherlock back while Sally chased after Lestrade. Sherlock fought him hard, arguing and ordering, but to no avail. John was running on instinct and even Sherlock’s Dom Voice couldn’t penetrate the urge to protect his pregnant Omega. Trees dropped around them. Sherlock sobbed in his arm, partly in fear for Mycroft and the rest of their pack, partly in fear for their unborn child. John held him tight and covered his body with his own when a branch shattered the front window.

“I won’t let it hurt you,” John promised, regardless of the battle scar covered soldier inside reminding him that those promises had been broken before, “I won’t let anything hurt you, Sherlock.”

[CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/63644.html)


	23. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 23

John cursed the fact that Sherlock would have been carrying several blankets with him if they had just let his nesting instincts run wild; instead they had asked him to fight them and leave the blankets behind in order to traverse the crime scene easily. Now there was flying debris and broken glass everywhere and blankets would have at least afforded some protection. John fished around while trying to continue to cover his Omega with his shorter body. He located a blanket underneath of the seat of one of the cars, one of those thick ones usually used for emergencies. It was moldy and smelled like motor oil, but it was protection so he pulled it over them both. Sherlock sneezed and John told him to roll over. Once Sherlock was facing the backrest of the seats they were sprawled on John tucked himself more securely around him and tucked the blanket in better.

Hours passed with John protectively pressing Sherlock into the seat, his hand occasionally straying down to stroke the man’s abdomen possessively. Eventually Sherlock slept, too emotionally and physically drained to resist, especially with his Alpha wrapped around him and crooning softly in his ear. John remained alert however, shivering every time the lighting flashed and the thunder roared and the hood of their car was pelted with all and sundry.

Eventually there was one last angry scream from the wind and then it faded away to nothing. The rain went with it, or had gone before without them realizing it amidst the wet misery, and they were left in utter silence. The silence was so intense, in fact, that Sherlock woke with a start, clutching at his stomach protectively.

“It’s fine, Sher, it’s over. We’re safe.”

“It might be the eye of the storm,” Sherlock replied.

“It might, and if that’s the case we’ll make it through round two, also.”

They lay still for another hour, John refusing to let Sherlock budge; until the man snarled that he had to piss. Finally John hissed for Sherlock to stay put while he went to see how bad off they were. John unlocked the door above him and stepped cautiously out of the car. The forest around him was absolutely silent.

John took a look at the damage, finding the car’s engine totaled. The three had landed so that the window was covered for the most part, which John found himself grateful for upon seeing the wreckage around him. If that tree had been a few inches further from the window it landed on they’d have been pelted with hail, sticks, and rocks. Of course, if it had been a few inches closer they might have been crushed instead. Sherlock was inching out of the car behind him, and John provided an arm for him to lean on. Sherlock gratefully tugged his trousers open and pissed behind the car, standing on a log so he didn’t sink in the dense mud that surrounded the car and mired the wheels.

“We wouldn’t be going anywhere even if we didn’t have a tree for a front window on this car,” John mentioned, looking anywhere but at what Sherlock was doing. He had to pee as well and it was getting painful, but he refused to lower his guard until Sherlock was back in the car. Finally Sherlock scrambled in and John sighed in relief as he emptied his own bladder.

Sherlock, however, had other plans, and after grabbing the blanket and a few bottles of water, started trudging up the road in the direction Lestrade had taken off.

“Sherlock! Hey! Wait! Damn it all!!” John finished urinating and stuffed himself back inside his pants, only bothering to do the button at the top before taking off after his wayward Omega.

“If you think for one second that you’re going to try and Dom _me_ again, you’ve got another thing coming!” Sherlock shouted over his shoulder, walking faster despite the thick mud tugging at his feet. John thought he might have lost a shoe already and was picturing snakes and parasites as he picked up the pace as well.

“Sherlock, it isn’t safe! Please, come back to the car!”

“When I get you home I’m going to ground you for a _week_. You’ll be watching so many educational shows you’ll be able to outthink Mycroft! I have never been so…”

Sherlock froze in place and John caught up to him, nearly falling forward as the mud slurped at his ankles again. He peered around Sherlock and instantly went feral.

A jaguar stood on the roadside, it’s mouth open as it scented the air and tried to determine what the strange things in front of it were… and if they were food. John had stepped in front of Sherlock and was snarling and growling like a wild thing, his hands groping for anything that could be used as a weapon. He hurled a rock first, then a small stick, before scooping up a small log to use as a club. The animal dodged the stone and went off into the woods again, but soon peered out curiously.

“No, you moron! Your gun! Damn Alpha hormones!” Sherlock shouted at him, but John couldn’t even process the words. His Omega was pawing at his trousers, but sex would have to wait until he’d dealt with the threat. “Fuck! It’s not working! It must have gotten wet…”

John saw a low hanging branch and started herding his Omega towards the tree as the inquisitive cat stalked forward.

“No! Damn it all! That’s a jaguar! It can climb better than you can fuck! The car! John! **Back to the car**!!”

John’s Omega was yelling again in that strangely compelling voice, and tugging on his arm, which was peculiar for his Omega so he gave him some of his attention.

_A car? A car would be defendable; we’d be safe there._

John glanced aside, saw the car, and switched tactics as he herded his Omega in that direction. His Omega stopped fighting him and he guided them to walk slowly so as to inform the predator in front of them that he wasn’t dealing with skittish prey. Sherlock slipped in the mud, going down and nearly taking John with him, and the jaguar darted forward. John ducked its swiping claw, dropped low, and rammed his log into the creature’s gut. Two sharp flares of pain shot up his shoulder and vanished into warmth as the creature was thrown away from him with the force of his blow. His angle tossed it over his shoulder and he twisted, lifting one leg to spin in place, the mud aiding him this time, and slamming it in the side with the log once more. He heard a sickening crack as the log connected with the big cat’s ribs and the creature hit the ground, squirming for a moment before going still. It’s breath was shallow and fast, the creature lifted it’s head then dropped it again before laying still and twitching it’s tail. It made small painful noises and John’s Alpha side deemed it defeated and retreated back inside his mind.

“Oh fuck. Oh my god. Sherlock, are you hurt? Fucking hell!” John panted, the fear kicking in now that he wasn’t running on instincts.

“Back to yourself, are you?” Sherlock groused as he picked his mud covered self off of the ground and tried to rescue his soiled blanket and water bottles.

“Back to the car. Now. You can punish me later, yeah? Just fucking _go_! This thing’s going to draw in other predators as it dies.”

John and Sherlock staggered into car and John slammed and locked the door behind him, ignoring Sherlock’s jab that it was unlikely the predators out here were able to work the latch. Instead he spun on his Omega, pressing him down in the seat and snogging him aggressively. Sherlock growled and bit his lip and the car rocked from side to side as they fought for dominance. Sherlock bit his neck and yanked his shirt off before tackling his pants. John had torn Sherlock’s shirt open, buttons flying helter-skelter, and was peppering his face with kisses as the man palmed his erection and fondled his bollocks.

“You’re bleeding,” Sherlock moaned, and pushed on Johns shoulders.

John decided his lover wanted a blowjob and swallowed his cock down as Sherlock ran his fingers over a painful spot on his shoulder. John moaned eagerly, but Sherlock pulled him off of his prick and turned him to face the seats so he could lick at that painful spot.

“Oh, god your blood tastes so _good_. I think I’ve found my food craving for the pregnancy,” Sherlock moaned licking and biting at the injury to get more.

John was stroking himself and moaning contentedly at his Dom’s touch, completely out of Alpha mode and ready to be an eager Submissive. Sherlock bit, sucked, scratched, and finally gave him a sharp slap on one bare buttocks and an order.

**“Turn around so I can fuck myself on your cock.”**

“Oh, fuck, yes!” John shouted, twisting about and pulling Sherlock into his lap.

The Omega lifted himself up but ordered John to finger him before he would slide down. John’s cock was twitching in anticipation, dripping pre-come down onto his thighs, as he pumped his fingers in and out of Sherlock’s greedy, clenching hole.

“Oh fuck!” Sherlock shouted, his tone alarmed, and came over John’s chest and stomach.

“Mmmmm, that’s so fucking _hot_ ,” John gasped, scooping some up with his fingers and sucking on them.

“I can’t believe I… I’m so _sensitive!_ John, oh, fuck, I’m… I’m…” Sherlock threw his head back, literally hitting the roof as he came again.

“Oh, god, Sher!” John cried out, and couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He pulled his fingers free with an audible squelch and thrust up into Sherlock’s still trembling body.

“Mmnnmmm!” Sherlock groaned, shaking his head from side to side as he tried to squirm back off of John’s prick. “It’s too much!”

“Pregnancy hormones,” John panted, and gripped his lover’s hips to hold him in place, “Make you more sensitive and hornier. No way are we stopping. You’re too fucking hot not to fuck right now.”

Sherlock shouted as John knotted him, his body throbbing and eager for release, and a few quick gyrations had Sherlock’s body clenching at him until he came explosively.

“Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck! Oh… Aahhhhhhh!” Sherlock had gripped his own cock, pumping it fast and hard, his desire spilling over to join the first two releases on John’s stomach.

“We’re going to break a record Sher,” John growled grinding their hips together as Sherlock went limp over his body.

“I’m s’posed to be the Dom,” Sherlock whimpered, sniffling sulkily.

“Welcome to Switching, love, now shut up and take it,” John’s challenge did precisely what he thought it would and Sherlock turned his head to bite their bonding mark _hard_. In fact he’d pulled out his incisors and drawn blood, sucking it down greedily. The pain was enough to throw John into another orgasm and send him soaring into subspace where he babbled out praises to his Perfect Match.

Sherlock had taken control again and was grinding himself on John’s cock in search of another release for them both.

“Break a record, eh? I’m going to milk you dry, doctor John Watson-Holmes.”

“I love it when you call me that!” John gasped, skating the edge and not really in control of what he was saying.

“Doctor?” Sherlock asked, surprise in his voice.

“Watson-Holmes.” John gasped, he knew his eyes were unfocused because he couldn’t see Sherlock’s reaction, but he sure as hell felt it as the Omega clenched a few times and began moaning in earnest.

“Oh, fuck, I’m so close! **Touch me, Dr. Watson-Holmes.** ”

John’s hands were only capable of coordinating themselves because they were ordered to, and they wrapped around Sherlock’s dick and moved of their own volition as the doctor writhed in pleasure. Sherlock climaxed again and John stared down at him in confusion when his subspace ensconced mind dully pointed out there had been no fluids spilled.

“Huh, dry orgasm,” John grunted and came along with Sherlock as the man screamed out another.

John blacked out at that point, and only came back when he heard Sherlock yelling at someone. He must have been out for a while, because his knot had softened and Sherlock was just pulling himself off of John’s lap. Some instinct made John grab onto him and growl a warning; it took a few seconds longer for him to process the scent of several unwashed Alphas.

“Sólo estamos tratando de ayudar!” Someone yelled.

“Let go, John. It’s perfectly fine; they’re from Search and Rescue. They’ve been in contact with Donovan.”

John peered blearily out of the car and saw the group of Alpha’s leering in at Sherlock.

“Put your clothes back on!” John snapped at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes: “We really need to have a talk about this new habit of yours of ordering me about.”

Sherlock and John both scrabbled for clothes and then exited the vehicle to be handed bottles of water and led towards a car.

“Parece que hemos rescatado de su luna de miel!” One of the men stated, his tone lewd. The men around him laughed and John tugged Sherlock closer, growling possessively.

“Te importa? Estoy tratando de disfrutar de la explosiã³n de verdaderamente estupenda sexo! Mi Alfa y acabo batió el record.”

The responses to whatever Sherlock had said were many ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and a question thrown back at him as they were helped into the back of a truck.

“He llegado a cinco orgasmos en un anudamiento.” Sherlock’s tone implied bragging, but John was still in the dark.

The men around them applauded and seemed to be congratulating John, who grinned and tucked Sherlock close to himself. The men clamored up, most riding outside the truck now that John and Sherlock were on the inside.

“Señor Alfa?” The driver asked, glancing aside at John.

“Ahh, ci?”

“¿Cómo dominar ÉL?” The man asked.

John glanced at Sherlock, waiting for a translation, but the man answered for him instead.

“No lo hace. Yo lo propio. Tanto él como su gigantesco pene.”

The man nodded gravely and the vehicle backed up the path it had originated from.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was impossible to keep confined to a hospital bed, no matter how much John pleaded and the hospital staff shouted. He was pacing about in a gown that showed far too many of John’s scratch marks on his pert behind when Donovan walked into the suite.

“We’re okay. We’re all okay. Mycroft, too.” She breathed.

John was so relieved he crossed the room and hugged the Alpha woman, who squeezed him back tightly sobbing a bit in relief, but her eyes were dry when they separated. Donovan moved around John and caught Sherlock up in a one-armed hug.

“Glad you’re alright, Freak,” She muttered before releasing him and hurrying out.

Sherlock gave her a confused look, but shook it off and hurried out to reception to demand Mycroft’s room number. John hurried after, tugging a robe onto his shoulders to hide his Omega’s beautiful pale bottom from prying eyes. Donovan headed for the elevators, shouting back about getting food.

Mycroft was barely awake when they entered, but that seemed to suit Sherlock who simply leaned over and pressed his neck to Mycroft’s mouth to be suckled softly. He crawled into the bed with him then and they were both soon snoring contentedly. John found himself leaning back against Lestrade who wrapped his arms around John’s waist and squeezed him gently.

“Do you mind if I…?”

“No, it’s fine.” Lestrade replied, and John squirmed free to suck a gentle mark into Mycroft’s shoulder before returning to his pack leader’s warm embrace.

“John, I need to pass out. Could you?” Lestrade asked, his voice full of strain.

“Hell, yes. Sleep. I’ll stay awake.”

Lestrade ignored the cot provided for him and sat in a chair, his head pillowed on Mycroft’s thigh. John stood to one side of the door and watched his closest pack members sleep. He started to think about how he’d tell his folks about Harry, but cut the thought off. He couldn’t deal with it yet. He’d handle it later, once they were all caught up on sleep and safely back in their homes. Maybe he’d take Sherlock to his parents place to have the baby. It was safe, isolated, and there were still baby things there from BG’s delivery. Then again, if Sherlock had complications only St. Bart’s would be able to help…

Round and round John’s thoughts went, planning for a future he finally saw happening and guarding over his loved ones. Soon. Soon they would be home.

 

**Translation of Spanish conversation (Roughly. Blame www.babylon.com if it’s all ridiculously wrong.)**

_< Implied Sherlock yelling at people he saw watching he and John sleep.>_

_We are only trying to help! – Rescuer 1_

_I think we rescued them from their honeymoon! – Rescuer 2_

_Do you mind? I am trying to enjoy the afterglow of incredible sex! My Alpha and I beat a record. – Sherlock_

_< oohs and ahhs>_

_< Implied question of what the record was.>_

_I have reached five orgasms in one knotting. - Sherlock_

_Mr. Alpha? – Rescuer 3_

_Yes? - John_

_How do you dominate HIM? – Rescuer 3_

_He doesn't. I own him. Both him and his gigantic penis. – Sherlock_

  


[CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/63835.html)

  



	24. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 24

John was beyond in love with Sherlock. He was obsessed to a completely unhealthy degree. Whether he was crawling about on his knees to serve Sherlock, trembling beneath his riding crop, fucking him senseless, or worshiping that gorgeous belly, one thing remained utterly true; Sherlock Holmes was fucking gorgeous, brilliant, and Dominant.

John knew he was acting like an Omega in Heat, but he hadn’t indulged his fetish over a pregnant belly during Moran’s pregnancy, and now that it was Sherlock he was at least a hundred times more aroused. He couldn’t look at Sherlock without becoming aroused. They had sex sometimes three times a day, usually quickies but occasionally drawing it out to blindingly beautiful BDSM scenes that left them both aching and content. Sherlock had made good on his blood craving and had added blood play to their kink list, arguably the most dangerous aspect of their sex life, but Sherlock was careful and had researched it thoroughly ahead of time. From what John knew, Lestrade and Mycroft were far kinkier and had an entire list of things the OBGYN had told them they could not do while Mycroft was pregnant.

John’s list was more of an offhand mentioning: don’t penetrate his cervix.

John’s list of things to do was a mile long, however, and consisted of everything from ‘make sure Sherlock eats’ to ‘rub his sore feet’.

“Oh, god, I think I’m developing a foot fetish,” John moaned, rubbing harder.

“You’re conditioning yourself to have one, certainly. I’m fairly positive you aren’t supposed to rub my feet with your cock.”

“S’good,” John moaned, feeling himself drawing close.

“Enough of that!” Sherlock snapped, bringing the crop down on John’s shoulder, “Save some for me!”

“Fuck!” John cried out, the crack from the crop sending him over the edge, and he panted out his orgasm with a guilty look up at Sherlock.

“Well, you’ll just have to be punished for that,” Sherlock growled, though he didn’t look angry.

“Is my punishment to suck you off until you come down my throat at least three times?”

“It is now,” Sherlock replied with wide eyes and a bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

John pounced on Sherlock, ignoring the cooling mess in his trousers. He’d be disgusted by it later, but for now he was far more interested in getting his Omega’s pants off. John flicked open Sherlock’s robe and slid the man’s pants down to his ankles. He moaned and rubbed his hands across that swollen belly; Sherlock at six months pregnant was a sight to behold. His hips had added weight to them, giving him a more curved look; his chest had developed tiny breasts, more like pronounced nipples, which would swell to feed their baby once he or she was born. Sherlock refused to find out the gender.

“Hands behind your back,” Sherlock ordered, a smirk on his lips.

“But… I… but…”

“ _Behind your back_ ; this is a punishment, remember? Let’s see how well you’ve gotten on with your gag reflex… or lack thereof.”

John put his hands behind his back and gripped his wrists. Sherlock stroked his cock a few times, hummed a moment, then struggled to his feet and toddled off. John watched his shapely arse leave with a wanton moan, but knew better than to follow the man. Sherlock returned with a large dildo and promptly sat on it, leaving John gaping at the subtle bulge of the toys rubber testicles peaking out from beneath Sherlock’s bollocks. Not one to waste the opportunity, Sherlock grabbed John’s head and pulled it down onto his cock. John gagged at the sudden intrusion, but soon established a rhythm of breathing during each up or down stroke, sucking continuously, and swallowing around the head of Sherlock’s cock as it buried itself in the back of his throat. Sherlock moaned appreciatively and rocked his hip on the sex toy as he thrust John’s head down onto his cock. John heard a click and realized Sherlock had activated the toys swelling knot feature. There was a hiss of air and then Sherlock was coming hard down his throat as he swallowed his lover down. Sherlock’s fingers went slack and John took a moment to slip his head out of Sherlock’s lap completely, breathing heavily and rotating his sore jaw. Sherlock would want more in a moment, but right now he was lost in the joys of knotting, his hips rocking as his eyes stared at the back of his head. John stared at that gorgeous belly and decided it needed a little love, so he leaned forward and ran his mouth and tongue across it, sucking here and there and dragging his teeth across Sherlock’s itchy stretch marks before dipping his tongue into his not-yet protruding belly button.

Sherlock gripped his own cock in one hand and John’s hair in the next, apparently wanting the attention on his belly more than his cock. John couldn’t blame him, who _wouldn’t_ want this delicious mound of flesh to be worshiped? John even loved the striped pattern, teasing Sherlock that he now resembled the tiger that he was in bed. Sherlock had ridden him particularly hard that night…

“Joooohhnn!” Sherlock moaned, his voice tense, and John recognized that he needed something that he wasn’t getting.

“Name it, love, and I’ll kill to get it for you,” John growled, frightened at how much he meant it in that moment.

“Your cock! Get this _thing_ out of me and fuck me!”

“May I use my hands?” John asked teasingly, but knew an instant later that it hadn’t been appreciated.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and his body stopped gyrating: “ _No._ ”

Sherlock struggled to rise, using John’s shoulder as support, and then knelt on the couch in front of him. He then thrust his arse back into John’s face and waited for him to remove the toy… with his mouth? John carefully used his teeth to turn the tiny release valve, cautious of catching Sherlock’s skin in such a sensitive area, and deflated the ‘knot’. Then he gripped the toy – trying not to think about where he was biting the phallus- and slowly dragged it out of his lover’s body. Sherlock moaned and shuddered, his muscles clamping down instinctively to keep it inside of him, but he didn’t try to stop John.

John wobbled to his feet, both of which were tingling from the length of time he’d spent on the floor, and leaned over Sherlock’s body. It was a tricky thing guiding his weeping cock in blind, but he soon felt Sherlock’s grasping entrance and pressed himself inside before straightening up again. They both moaned then, relief the first reaction to their bodies being joined, and then John began to thrust shallowly, teasing Sherlock with the head of his cock until the man began to buck back and cry out softly. It wasn’t long after that the order was barked out.

“ **Knot me!** ”

John couldn’t have stopped his hips snapping forward if his life had depended on it, and he gasped at the tight clench of Sherlock’s body even as he gloried in the man’s shout of pleasure.

“Yes! John! Yes! Bury yourself inside me!”

Sherlock was tighter than normal with the baby bearing down on his entrance. With Omega males full penetration would become impossible once the belly dropped lower, but for now John was simply in awe of Sherlock’s unrivaled sensuality. The man was constantly wet, eager to be fucked relentlessly, and almost needy when it came to pleasuring John in return. Even now Sherlock’s body was instinctively clenching, milking another orgasm from John as he ground his hips into his panting Omega.

“Joooohnnn!” Sherlock groaned and came across the couch cushions.

“Yes, Sherlock, yes! Oh, god, you brilliant man! Ifucking _live_ just to be inside you! Mmmmmmnnn you’re dripping all over my _thighs_!”

Complements always did it for him, and Sherlock came again with a nearly agonized groan. His pleasure sometimes leaned towards painful lately, not just from his swollen cervix, but also as his hips became loose from the weight he’d gained and his feet ached terribly. John would sooth it all later. For now he was chasing another release and was right on the cusp.

“Oh, god, Sher!! Oh fuck!”

“That’s it, doctor, _take me,_ ” Sherlock purred, reminding John of the doctor kink Sherlock had recently revealed. John had spent an entire day giving Sherlock a checkup: both external and internal. Apparently it _was_ possible to hear someone’s heartbeat through his rectum.

John’s eyes rolled back in his head and he saw spots as Sherlock clenched him tightly and he came a final, almost excruciating time. He had to use his hands then, or fall and hurt them both, and grasped Sherlock’s hips. That’s where things became a problem. They were now soundly knotted and would be for a bit, but judging by the trembling in Sherlock’s limbs he needed to lie down. John couldn’t lie on top of him, though, and with Sherlock’s protruding belly there was no way to stretch out behind him on the couch. John’s legs were starting to shake as well from the odd crouch he’d been in the entire time.

“You’ll have to get to your feet, Sher,” John panted, earning a groan of disapproval from Sherlock, “Come on, I’ll help.”

He hauled his exhausted and satisfied Dom to his feet and carefully walked them both to the bedroom, gasping as the movements re-stimulated them both. That led to another quick round of fucking on the bed with Sherlock reaching orgasm but John relenting and guiding them both onto their sides. He was exhausted and Sherlock wasn’t even producing ejaculate anymore. He’d produced less and less as the pregnancy had progressed and his internal organs pressed down. Unimportant vessels were being sealed off in favor of leaving room for important things. They would shut down temporarily, staying alive on minimum blood flow, and resume functioning once Sherlock’s pregnancy was over. Blood clots were a huge issue in pregnant Omega males, but that was just another good reason for John to massage his lover’s legs… and arse… and cock…

Sherlock gave out a jaw-popping yawn and dropped off to sleep like a stone. John smiled, nuzzling their bondmark, and happily joined him.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/64144.html)


	25. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 25

Sherlock was due in three weeks and he had become utterly sedentary. He only moved from the nest on the couch, to bathroom, to the nest on their bed. John had drawn the line at him making the bathtub into a nest by pointing out he wouldn’t be able to soak in it if he did that. Sherlock had sulked, searched for a suitable corner instead, then given up and went back to bed.

More alarming than Sherlock’s disinterest in anything besides sleep was his lack of interest in cases. Lestrade had popped by, practically waving them under his nose, only to be snarled at to leave him alone. John spent several hours a day total rubbing Sherlock’s legs and back to keep the circulation up, but convincing the detective to move more than necessary was impossible.

“You’ll have difficulties like Mycroft did, Sherlock. You have to do a bit of moving,” John pleaded as he rubbed the detective’s legs vigorously.

“Mycroft is _old_ , that’s why he had difficulties. I’m fine.”

“Mycroft is _male,_ that’s why he had difficulties. Please get up and we’ll take a nice walk in the park, yeah?”

“No.”

Finally, about a week before the due date, Sherlock went on another nesting spree. John came home from a shopping trip to find he’d pulled out everything in the closet in their bedroom and was sitting on the pile as though it were a thrown.

“Oh, good, you’re here. Move all of that pile,” Sherlock indicated a pile of hodgepodge on the far side of the room, “to storage downstairs. Move all of _this_ pile back into the closet.”

“You pulled it out, why don’t you move it back?” John asked with no small amount of shock, but still glad the man was mobile again.

Sherlock gave him a disgusted look, “Because I’m _pregnant_ , John. Honestly, and you call yourself an Alpha!”

John hurried to put the groceries away and obey his Dom. He also threw quite a few things out that Sherlock had indicated be kept. The Omega had no concept of ‘trash’ whatsoever due to his gender/dynamic deviation. He just kept everything until John eventually tossed it.

Two days after Sherlock’s due date the man was ready to climb the walls. He was doing everything possible to trigger labor: walking, eating spicy food, and sex (such as they could manage in Sherlock’s condition). As his doctor had predicted, all it resulted in was sore feet, heartburn, and a happy Alpha. Sherlock decided to be scientific about it and started watching deliveries of labor on the internet, focusing on pictures of a cervix opening in the hopes of triggering the hormones that would start his own. John hurriedly found new games to play with BG so he didn’t have to watch. He’d seen babies delivered before, and it wasn’t something he wanted to see again: especially not after Moran. John was going to be comfortably situated beside Sherlock’s head, instructing him to breathe and ducking his fists when the man lost his temper.

Sherlock had chosen Nancy, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft to be the ones to deliver his baby. Mary and Nancy were staying with them already; Mary was to help with BG and Mycroft’s son, Rupert, during the delivery. She and Nancy were sleeping on cots downstairs in 221C since their dungeon was off limits for a bit.

John probably should have predicted what ended up happening, but things had been so peaceful for so long that he’d been lulled into a sense of security, which was why when Sherlock suddenly bolted out the door he followed at a leisurely pace. Once John had grabbed his coat and slid his shoes on he double-checked his pockets for keys, mobile, and a stopwatch in case labor started, before calling out to whoever was in earshot that Sherlock had taken another walk and they’d be back later. A few answering shouts let him know he’d been heard.

John stepped out of 221B onto the pavement below and looked first right, then left, then started scanning the opposite street. Sherlock didn’t move fast anymore, everything was an awkward, pain filled waddle for him as his far too narrow hips received pressure and the occasional kick from his heavy belly, so there was no reason he shouldn’t still be in sight. John pulled out his phone and called Sherlock, who of course didn’t answer, so he texted him instead.

**To: John Watson  
On a case. Meet me at Thames Docks E12 immediately. SH**

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Are you mad? You’re overdue to have a baby. Come home at once! JW**

**To: John Watson  
Still trying to Dom me? We’ve discussed this. It won’t be happening. Go upstairs and sit in the corner until I return. Should be about six hours. Suggest you empty your bladder first. SH**

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Cinnamon. You’re carrying my child and I love you, you bastard, now come back home! JW**

Sherlock didn’t reply so John stared in frustration at his phone for a minute or two before calling Lestrade and hailing a cab.

***What follows is actually a dream I had last night, so we’re going to deviate from the norm and go to Sherlock’s POV for a bit. My muse is a bit pissed, but she’ll get over it. Basically for John’s half there’s lots of hand wringing and freaking out, so I thought I’d just skip all that. You’re welcome.***

Sherlock waddled unsteadily up the gangplank of the S.S. Clue Cards and glanced around the large river boat, absorbing every detail from the rust spots and what it indicated about the material composition of the vessel to the width of the walking areas and how it would effect someone dragging a corpse along. The Clue Cards was a casino boat, which had suddenly become popular directly after the American film _Maverick_ had aired in 1994 but had fallen to the wayside in the decades since. This one was still in operation, however, and remained popular due to their habit of creating a mystery dinner theater theme in the model of _Clue_ (1985) to go along with the gambling.

Sherlock was handed a card almost immediately upon weighing anchor, which he reviewed immediately. As the owner of the boat had promised, Sherlock was to be the ‘body’ for the duration of the 6-hour ride up and down the Thames. Within that time frame he had to discover the whom and the how of the robbery of the owner’s safe, which had been full of money and client valuables that they were using as collateral. All of the players from the previous day had been invited back onto the boat; with the promise their valuables and winnings would be returned to them once Sherlock had solved the case. Of course they had all shown up, the thief was no fool; had he or she decided not to show they would have been immediately pinned as the culprit. The boats security cameras provided ample views of every guest, not to mention it required a credit check just to set foot on the boat. The thief was smart enough to commit the crime unseen, but had picked far to bright and shiny a target; there would be no escaping this trap.

Sherlock and the guests were shown to the dining hall where they sat down at three round tables and the previous day’s plot was re-introduced.

“Now, as you all know,” Explained The Butler, Wadsworth, who was really the multi-millionaire host, “Yesterday we were ill treated by one of our guests. Today, Boffin Sherlock Holmes himself has agreed to play Mr. Boddy and help us find our culprit. Since we already had a body, there will now be two and the circumstances of their deaths will be identical. Yesterday’s Mr. Boddy has agreed to assist Mr. Holmes since he is currently in a family way. Please interact with them as you would before, that is to say those indicated as ‘dead’ by a black band around their arms are only capable of gambling and cannot answer questions. Mr. Holmes _will_ be asking you questions, which you are to reply to, but we ask you not harry him unnecessarily.”

The man took a moment to answer questions, and then launched into the plot of the evening:

“I have gathered you here under pseudonyms in order to right a grievous wrong which has been brought to each of you,” Wadsworth explained, “It has come to my attention that all of you are being blackmailed by my employer, who is in turn blackmailing myself as well. I have evidence of this, so you need not deny it. It has become my intention to put a halt to this nefarious disabuse of our persons and so free us all. Blackmail, as you all know, relies on secrecy. I urge all of you to confront my employer, whom you have never seen the face of before today- as you have never met each other- and inform him that you will not be continuing his scheme. If we all band together and demand he release us from his bonds, then we shall all be free. Now, I invite you all to relax and play a round of cards while dinner is being prepared. My employer will be arriving shortly to join us for dinner, after which we will discuss the release of our burdens. You may all begin.”

Sherlock was helped to stand by Mr. Boddy the First, and lead to each table in succession. Each player had been given their exact cards from the previous day, which was made easier since there were cameras viewing each hand to avoid cheating. The house did not play in this game, though they might collect on the final gamble if no one solved the ‘crime’, so the players had no reason to worry about the cameras. The owner of the boat and this franchise made his killing by charging exorbitant amounts of money to the individuals who wanted to join in and occasionally taking the final pot. He was already rich, so this was all a game to him with the meager (in his eyes) profit being a mere bonus. Mr. Boddy was not allowed to gamble, which was a bit like drawing the short end of the stick, but was instead given his passage fee back. Wadsworth never gambled, either, which left three tables with four persons each.

Sherlock watched them all re-enact their previous days wins and losses, some of them laughing at error’s they’d made as they openly showed their cards to the table this time. 

“I knew you were bluffing! I knew it! _Why_ didn’t I trust my gut?” Miss Scarlet, a pseudonym laughed.

“Because I’m really quite good,” The Singing Telegram Girl replied with a laugh.

The Singing Telegram Girl would ‘die’ before the end of the show as well: as would The Cook, The Motorist, and The Cop. Once a person ‘died’ they could only gamble. No other interaction was allowed. The host even laughingly gagged them if need be and they’d only be able to gamble by holding up flash cards that stated the move they wanted to make. Each table featured a different game: Poker, All Fours, and Happy Families. The players would rotate, with each break in the plot starting a different round of gambling. At the end they would collect their winnings and one last wager would be made: solve the murder. Each player could then offer up his or her entire winnings- all or nothing- in order to deduce who had murdered Mr. Boddy. Whoever correctly guessed the Who, How, and With What Weapon would walk away with all the winnings of the other people who had chosen to guess as well. If no one got it right, then Wadsworth kept the winnings of those who had chosen to take the final gamble. The correct answer was listed in a sealed envelope, which was in a clear, locked plastic case on a dais in the center of the group of gambling tables.

Sherlock waddled about a bit, holding on firmly to Mr. Boddy as the boat swayed a bit as his balance was already poor. He hated being pregnant, but he’d do it all again in a heartbeat to see John stare at him the way he had of late, and of course to feel the bump and roll of the baby inside of him. He couldn’t wait to meet the little person he and John had created. He loved BG, of course, and thought of him as his own, but this little dove would be part of them _both_ and Sherlock was near giddy with anticipation. Which was why he had taken off the way he had, though he felt a bit guilty at scaring John. Honestly, he had expected his lover to follow right along, not dawdle and leave his pregnant Omega wandering about alone. He really only had himself to blame, especially when he showed such cheek by ordering him to return. John _knew_ that Sherlock went mad without a case, and they hadn’t gone near one nearly a month! True, he’d been laid back and uninterested for most of that time, but now he was bursting with energy and _needed_ this! John should understand that as any other bondmate would. So Sherlock shoved his guilt aside and waddled off to use the loo before continuing to watch the re-enactment.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

They were two hours in to the ‘play’ and one round of gambling had ended in favor of re-vamping the plot. Mr. Boddy had just died under nefarious circumstances and Mrs. Peacock, Mrs. White, Prof. Plum, Mr. Green, Col. Mustard, and Miss Scarlet were all pointing their fingers at each other. It was announced that The Cook might be involved… he was found ‘dead’ in the ships galley. Yvette was instructed to scream from the ‘billiard room’, which was actually just a cabin with photos of famous pool games and players, and everyone fled there. Sherlock was thoroughly enjoying himself, sorry he’d already solved the false crime, and well on his way to solving the real one, when he felt a sudden release of pressure and intense heat washed down his thighs.

His water had just broken.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/64501.html)


	26. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 26

Sherlock stood there staring at the growing wet patch on his trousers trying to figure out what he should do now. He couldn’t very well _hide_ it; even if it hadn’t been obvious in his grey slacks the sickly sweet smell of amniotic fluids would hit them all soon. Mr. Boddy I. was already giving him a concerned look.

“Mr. Holmes?” Wadsworth asked with some anxiety.

“Keep going,” Sherlock instructed, “Fetch me a towel, would you Mr. Boddy the First? There’s a good lad.”

“I have a lube pad or two in my purse,” Mrs. Peacock informed, tugging one out, “I used them when my water broke with my second babe.”

“I have a few, too once you soak those through,” Mr. Green informed cheerily.

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, dropping his trousers without shame and stuffing the pads inside. He didn’t bother to use the adhesive; it would be useless with his shorts soaked.

“Perhaps we should speed things along? Create a sort of running commentary?” Wadsworth suggested apprehensively, “You aren’t going to be able to keep on your feet for much longer.”

Sherlock knew the man was right, in fact he was already feeling a cramping pain spread up from between his legs and watched in wonder as his entire baby bump clenched and _moved_. Sherlock hissed in pain, his eyes watering from it, and doubled over. He would have toppled had Mr. Boddy I. and The Evangelist not grabbed onto him.

“Do any of the cabins have a bed?” Yvette asked.

“No,” Wadsworth replied, “However we do have a small infirmary.”

“Keep _going_ ,” Sherlock growled between clenched teeth, “Abbreviated will be fine.”

“It most certainly will _not_ , Mr. Holmes. You are in labor!” Mrs. Peacock argued.

“I have at least 24 hours before the baby’s birth becomes critical,” Sherlock argued, “in that time I can…”

“…Be flat on your back pushing a baby out,” Col. Mustard cut in. The Beta quickly stepped forward and asked Wadsworth to lead them to the infirmary.

“We’ll just have to figure this out on our own,” Wadsworth stated, heading for the doorway, “If that fails then I’ll refund everyone’s money, including the winnings. My pride will suffer, but…”

“Your _pride_ ,” Prof. Plum snapped, “My grandmother’s earrings were in that safe! You can’t recoup that loss, Wadsworth, my daughter was to inherit those!”

“Then you shouldn’t have put them up as collateral in a gambling match,” Sherlock snarled as another wave of pain crested. They were coming far too close together than was normal for this stage of labor.

“I didn’t loose them fair and square, though, did I? They were stolen and I want them back!” Prof. Plum stomped his foot angrily.

“Me, too!” Mrs. White stepped forward, “My daddy’s diamond studded watch was in that safe, and I’m not leaving without it! Neither are the rest of you!”

Mrs. White drew a gun from her purse and everyone took a stunned step back before growing still.

“If I may join you in your endeavor, Mrs. White,” Prof. Plum offered in an oily voice, “I believe two guns are better than one.”

Mrs. White gave him an appraising look and then nodded her consent. Prof. Plum tugged a pistol from his waistband and joined Mrs. White on her side of the cabin. Sherlock sighed in frustration and rolled his eyes.

“Exactly how do you plan on continuing this?” Sherlock asked, “My labor is progressing unusually fast. I will be useless to you in a matter of hours.”

As if to demonstrate its support of Sherlock’s position, his abdomen gave another forceful squeeze and Sherlock’s knees hit the deck. He doubled over, fingers scrabbling against the carpeting, gasping in pain as spots danced in front of his eyes. His contractions were a mere four minutes apart and easily a minute long.

“You two take him to the infirmary. Mr. Holmes, I’ll be requiring the use of your phone,” Mrs. White rooted about in his pocket and pulled out his mobile.

Sherlock leaned heavily on the people who carried him down to the infirmary as fear finally found it’s way into his mind. This baby was coming, and it was going to arrive long before their expected arrival at dock. No one had cause to worry about them until four more hours lapsed, which meant his helpless child would be born to a ship full of non-pack members before the police even started to question anything. Any one of these Omegas, which the majority of the group was, might try to claim his child while he lay useless; there was only one Beta on the ship who he might rely on to be a neutral party and deliver his child safely and securely into his own arms.

Sherlock was laid own on a hard bed and made as comfortable as possible while Mrs. White tapped his phone a few times and then handed it to him. It was in skype mode and was in communication with her own phone.

“We’re going to continue this plot and you are going to pay _very_ close attention, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. White informed him, “Once our possessions are found we’ll get the captain above to call for help and have you taken to hospital or home or wherever you want to deliver.”

“I am telling you, I won’t make it,” Sherlock panted, “My labor is progressing too quickly!”

“Then I suggest you think very fast,” Prof. Plum added.

Sherlock clutched the side of the bed as another contraction left him momentarily dazed and unable to do much more than gasp. He needed to recall his breathing techniques. He needed to get hold of his Alpha. He needed to have his pack around him to deliver his baby and keep them both safe. He needed _John_.

Wadsworth’s walkie-talkie on his hip went off as the captain upstairs steering the boat asked a question loudly into the tense infirmary.

_“Sir, we have a Detective Inspector Lestrade on the com demanding we pull into the nearest wharf and escort Mr. Holmes off. What would you like me to do?”_

“Tell him,” Mrs. White hissed, “To reply that Mr. Holmes got back off the boat before we were able to leave dock. Tell him his labor had started and the detective was on the phone with his Alpha before we heaved out.”

Wadsworth related the information and the captain didn’t question it, but a few minutes later the captain came through again.

_“He’s insisting he be allowed to search the vessel, Sir,”_ The static voice informed, _“He says Mr. Holmes is a pain in the… bum… and tends to go off on his own. That we might not know he was aboard.”_

Every eye in the ship gave Sherlock a startled look, clearly wondering what kind of Omega would be described that way, and he grinned at them savagely.

“Ignore all hails,” Wadsworth replied when instructed, “We aren’t stopping until we find the thief.”

“ _I don’t think…”_

“You aren’t _paid_ to think, and you haven’t the capacity for it _Alpha_. Do as I have instructed or you’re fired,” Wadsworth ordered.

“ _Yes, Sir,”_ The sullen Alpha Captain replied. It always irked an Alpha to follow Omega instruction, but their superior minds ruled the world even as Alphas ruled the home.

Col. Mustard was stripping Sherlock’s trousers and pants off, laying down towels beneath his hips, and generally trying to be helpful.

“I’ve never delivered a baby before,” Col. Mustard informed him softly, “I’ve never even seen it done. I’ll help where I can, but I’ll be of little use.”

“You can help me best by making sure my child stays with _me_ at all times after delivery,” Sherlock informed, but didn’t relax when the pale faced Beta nodded.

Omegas craved children, it was as instinctual as a Dom’s voice was compelling. Children were kept apart from unrelated or pre-menopausal Omegas until they were at least five years old for fear of kidnapping. There were eleven unrelated Omegas on this ship, only one of them looked old enough to possibly be menopausal and the fact she was one of the people holding a gun gave Sherlock no comfort. If the Beta kept them all out of the infirmary they wouldn’t actively seek out his child, but if they saw or smelled the baby they would want to take it for themselves. Hearing the child cry over the skype connected phone might even do the trick and send them barreling down here to fight over who got possession of his child. Once a bonding occurred custody couldn’t be fought- even by the blood related parents- unless child abuse was suspected since an Omega separated from a child they had bonded to could sicken and die if they didn’t fall pregnant immediately after- assuming they didn’t kill themselves and the child before they could be separated. Sherlock had to keep his child close long enough to bond with him, and then he had to keep the baby from being stolen anyway until the law could arrive and provide him with legal protection as the child’s bonded parent. If he lost his child before bonding he would be heartbroken but survive it. If he lost his child after bonding, and the police couldn’t recover him or her, he would likely sicken and die leaving John to die as well since they were a Perfect Match, leaving BG to be raised by John’s parents since Mycroft had refused to so much as look at the child since it was born. Of course, this was all assuming they both survived the labor.

With that thought came memories of Sebastian Moran curled up in a narrow grave, his naked body white as a sheet with the exception of the brown stain across his thighs from delivering BG. He had died of blood loss even with John, a trained surgeon and the best doctor Sherlock knew, standing right there with him trying to save his life. Sherlock steeled his nerves and cast a cold look about the room.

“I suggest you begin, lest we run out of time and the patience of the police,” Sherlock snarled.

XXXXXXXXX

Three hours after Sherlock’s water broke he lay soaked in sweat and breathing through each contraction – _in, out, out, out, in, out, out, out –_ while trying not to moan or cry out lest he drown out the sounds of the drama being re-enacted on the tiny screen in front of him. He was desperately trying to think his way through the pain but his contractions had reached the point they were only a minute apart. He found himself wishing he was a masochist as most of the Subs he’d spoken to in labor class had informed him they’d spent previous labors in subspace and some even professed to feeling as though they were having orgasms during contractions. Pleasure was the furthest thing from Sherlock’s mind.

Everyone had something to loose, but Sherlock had narrowed down the suspect list to Mrs. White, Prof. Plum, and the two people who had done abysmally at cards, Yvette and The Cook. He was ruling out Mrs. White due to her actions with the gun. Mr. Plum had merely followed her lead, Sherlock thought he might have been the thief and was trying to manipulate the situation in his benefit. Then again… accusing either of them might start a duel of sorts and solve Sherlock’s problems… unless they shot someone else in their rage. Another contraction hit and Sherlock’s pride, deductive skills, and what little concern he had for others flew directly out the window.

“Plum!” Sherlock screamed, “Pluuumm!”

“Plum is the thief? But he’s got a gun?” Someone shouted, but Sherlock’s mind was too far-gone to respond or even notice who had spoken.

Arguments broke out but Sherlock had dropped his phone to the ground and was sobbing through another contraction… or had the last not ended? Shots were fired and people screamed. Someone was sobbing. Was it Sherlock? He couldn’t tell.

“Breathe, Mr. Holmes, you must keep breathing!” Col. Mustard insisted.

Sherlock couldn’t reply, not even to tell Col. Mustard what he could do with his damned breathing instructions. The pain was continuous now, no relief, no chance to take a sip of water or gather himself for the next wave. He thrashed on the bed, trying to draw in air that simply refused to enter his lungs. The Beta was on the phone with 411 trying to get help to them now that there was no point in holding off, but they didn’t seem to understand that he simply couldn’t dock the boat. He was finally able to draw a breath into his starved lungs and let it out in an agonized scream, sobbing towards the end. He felt as though his entire body were being squeezed in a trash compactor. He was too hot, thirsty, nauseous, tired, in horrific pain, and had no more left to give. He lay back in the bed, limp besides the contractions rippling his belly, and sobbed brokenly.

“They’re on their way, Mr. Holmes, just hold on.”

“I can’t… I can’t…” Sherlock panted, “Can’t do this.”

“You must,” Col. Mustard insisted.

The Beta had his entire hand inside of Sherlock and was feeling around for his cervix, which was much deeper on an Omega male than on a female. Sherlock felt him touch it and run his fingers along the edge in a wide ring, sending an extra jolt of pain through his body, circling what _must_ be the baby’s head. Sure enough he confirmed it a moment later, despite Sherlock’s weak attempts to squirm away from his intruding touch.

“I think it may be time to push, Mr. Holmes,” Col. Mustard said with no surety in his voice at all. Sherlock well knew if he pushed too soon he could injure himself, but he’d been having the urge and ignoring it for some minutes. He was simply too drained.

“Can’t…” Sherlock’s vision frayed at the ends and he lost consciousness, but it must have only been for seconds because Col. Mustard was still speaking encouragement instead of panicking as he might have done if Sherlock had gone entirely under. The Beta pressed a straw to Sherlock’s mouth and he swallowed water down gratefully.

“A healthy baby, just keep picturing a healthy baby,” The Beta encouraged, “Held in your arms safe and sound. Picture nursing… is it a boy of a girl?”

Sherlock couldn’t answer, even if he’d known, and he suddenly wished he _had_ found out if only so he could picture his goal better. He wanted to know what his and John’s baby would look like, and that thought gave him the strength to brace his elbows against the bed, bend forward, and _push_.

 

**Sherlock’s labor progression is based off of an actual event, so please don’t tell me it is unrealistic. Sometimes things just don’t go normally.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/64737.html)


	27. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 27

Everything sounded fuzzy and muffled. He knew full well that Col. Mustard was speaking to him, and that he was supposed to be doing something, but what it was he simply couldn’t recall. He was in horrific pain, and it occurred to him that John really ought to do something about that. He was a doctor; he must have a technique of some kind…

Someone threw water over Sherlock’s face and he gasped and jolted back to reality with a scream of pain. Instinctively he bore down again, then purposefully stopped. He _couldn’t_ push. To push would mean losing his child as Miss Scarlet stood in the room with a pale face and hopeful eyes. He _would_ be on a ship that had been hijacked with a barren Omega right as he was giving birth! Inside of him his child was safe, but outside…

“Come on, Mr. Holmes, you can’t keep her inside you forever,” Miss Scarlet whispered, “Just think of how much better you’ll feel. You can relax, go to sleep, have a bath, eat a meal…”

“Him!” Sherlock panted out.

“Sorry?”

“Him! I can’t keep HIM inside me forever,” Sherlock gasped.

“You said you didn’t know the gender…”

“If you’ll be wanting a girl, I’ll be birthing a boy. I’m quite contrary that way, just ask John,” Sherlock panted, then dropped off again and floundered for a moment, confused and disoriented.

“He’s dehydrated, and his salt is off. Give him some cold broth and then some water,” Miss Scarlet’s voice echoed around in his head. A straw was pressed to his lips and he drank from it gratefully.

It refreshed him a bit and he gave her another threatening glare.

“Leave and I’ll pretend you never attempted this nonsense, which means you’ll live to see another day. Believe me, you won’t otherwise. My Alpha has broken the law on my behalf before; he’ll do it again. You won’t keep my child. Ever.”

From betwixt his legs Col Mustard sighed, ever the neutral party that non-pack Beta’s were, once Miss Scarlet had managed to crawl in through a window – bypassing the barricaded door – he had not fought her. He would probably attempt to hand Sherlock the child, but when Miss Scarlet intercepted he would not fight it. Or so Sherlock thought.

“This really has gone on long enough,” Col. Mustard said with a sigh, then stood, picked up his chair, and hurled it at Miss Scarlet.

The barren Omega was knocked backwards, too stunned to dodge, and Col. Mustard crossed the room with lightning speed despite his girth. The woman struggled valiantly, but he had her beat in size and strength and was soon pulling her arms behind her back, intending on tying her wrists with some bandages. Miss Scarlet, however, was an Omega Sub and no stranger to bondage. She wriggled out of his grasp quite easily and spun about, pressing something into his abdomen.

Sherlock winced as the gun went off and Col. Mustard laid flailing and bleeding on the infirmary deck, dying slowly and in a great deal of pain. Miss Scarlet stepped over him and came to sit herself down by Sherlock’s spread legs with quiet anticipation. She stared at his most private area and simply waited. Sherlock despaired of hope at that moment, laid his head back, and wept.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade and John were skimming along beside the S.S. Clue Cards in the little motor boat Lestrade had finally got the police to let them use, with John obviously contemplating jumping the gap between the two. They weren’t going very fast, the riverboat was at top speed for it’s kind but that was still the third lowest gear for the motorboat. Still, it wasn’t the speed so much as the gap and the height of the Clue Cards’ deck that made his endeavor impossible.

“This isn’t a bloody James Bond movie!” Lestrade shouted over the engine roar, “You’ll never make that!”

John stood on the edge, was jostled by a wave, and would have fallen into the water had Lestrade not abandoned his attempts to steer the craft in order to grab his belt and yank him back. The motorboat swung far away from the Clue Card and then abruptly swung back, slamming into its side and cracking the hull. John jumped, used the damage as a ladder, and scrabbled over the side of the riverboat. He was bleeding from a few cuts and scrapes but he was hardly concerned. John sniffed the air and followed the scent of Omega blood into the cabins below. The main card area was filled with corpses and people huddling and whimpering in corners. It looked like one of those American spaghetti westerns, where everyone had drawn a gun and started shooting all at once. Faces were contorted in surprise, trapped that way in the throws of rigor mortis, and John only needed to touch one corpse to know this crime was nearly an hour old.

There were survivors, and the doctor in him wanted to help them, but his Alpha was on search and rescue for his Omega only. No one else mattered or even existed. He shouted at them for Sherlock’s location but they only wailed and begged for help. He ignored them and found an emergency exit sign complete with map and red ‘you are here’ arrow. The ship’s infirmary was a good bet, but so was the galley as a defensible position full of weapons, and then there was the captains seat where surely _someone_ was alive and driving this thing!

John bolted for the top of the boat once more and nearly strangled the captain in an attempt to get sense from him. He had no idea what was going on. He had been ordered to drive full speed ahead, up and down the Thames, until they ran out of petrol or the crime was solved. He hadn’t even heard from his captain in over an hour. He had no idea where Sherlock Holmes was.

John went for the infirmary next, and the sight he saw left him gaping for a moment, before he simply crawled across the blood-soaked floor, sobbing and calling Sherlock’s name.

His love was curled up on the floor, blood soaking his mouth and chin, naked from the waist down where blood also tainted his alabaster skin. He held something close to his chest, but John couldn’t see what it was amidst all the red, black, and brown of blood, blood, _blood,_ more than he’d seen since Afghanistan. Two other corpses lay in the room, but they didn’t even register for John, who knelt by his Omega’s head and gently lifted it into his lap.

Sherlock stirred, took in a breath, and opened glazed eyes to stare out into the distance.

“John?” He asked softly, and then closed his eyes again.

John started screaming. He wasn’t sure what he screamed, only that he did so until his throat felt torn and raw. Hands closed around his forearms but he fought them off. Someone kneeled by Sherlock and whatever his love clutched, but he pulled the gun from his waistband and would have shot them had they not managed to twist it out of his numb fingers and club him with it.

Stars.

A rushing noise in his ears.

Tears blocking his vision.

White snow falling from the sky and collecting in dark curls as shimmering pale blue-green eyes smiled at him before slipping into a cab.

_“Aren’t you coming, John? There’s work to be done. The game is on!”_

“Right behind you, Sherlock,” John tried to shout, but it came out as a hoarse whisper.

“No, no, no, no, you don’t, damn it. He’s alive! John! He’s alive! They both are! Damn it, stay with me!”

“So much blood,” John argued.

“It’s not his! Mostly not his! Bloody hell, this is Sherlock we’re talking about! It… it looks like he ripped her throat open with his teeth! It’s the other Omega’s blood! John! Wake up! Come on! Bloody hell! You’ve got a _baby_ here! Sherlock’s in your arms _alive!_ They both are! Come on, man!”

John felt someone slapping at his cheek and opened his eyes weakly. They hurt. They felt like sandpaper and his throat felt like the wasteland that had supplied it.

“I’m sorry I hit you, but you were going to bloody shoot me.”

Lestrade apologized gently, and then nodded down to John’s lap where Sherlock’s brown curls still rested, plastered to his head by sweat and blood. John gently touched them and Sherlock took a shuddering breath, his arms tightening protectively around the brown bundle in his arms. The brown bundle that whimpered piteously and waved an arm.

“Oh, god,” John sobbed, leaning down he breathed in his sons scent, marveling at the mixture of Sherlock and himself, before tugging off his jumper. He folded it and traded places with it so he could stretch out beside Sherlock.

“I’ve got the captain to stop the ship, though he was already calling for help when I arrived. You scared him half to death. A rescue boat is outside and they’re just waiting for me to calm you before coming in. I’m going to get them now. You don’t move, yeah? Just focus on bonding with that child. Fast.”

John nuzzled down, licking the blood coated child with no regard for the taste, just trying to get the bonding process to begin. The child was facing Sherlock’s chest, had probably been feeding instinctively at one point, but was now simply resting. Little eyes flickered open and John called to the baby to try and get him to look towards him. The eyes flickered shut and John softly spoke to Sherlock instead, trying to get their child out of his arms so he could bond with him before strangers flooded the room and touched their baby, possibly causing irrevocable damage to the baby’s psychological development. Sherlock’s eyes flickered open again, he whispered his bondmates name, and then released the baby into his care. John carefully supported the child’s head, turned it around, and stared down at his tiny son.

The umbilical cord was still attached, but John’s focus was on the baby’s face. He leaned forward; inhaling the scent again, and then carefully pressed the child’s face to his own neck and the scent glands therein. The baby made little whiffing noises and mouthed at John’s neck to take in his scent. John pulled it away after a few seconds and licked the cub’s neck as well. Just to be sure he carefully turned the baby and pressed his face to Sherlock’s neck after licking a spot clear of blood. The baby repeated the bonding process with Sherlock, who instinctively opened his mouth to take in his child’s scent regardless of level of consciousness. The paramedics were at the door and softly asking permission to enter. John tucked the baby safely in Sherlock’s arms, watching him instinctively support the head and hold the pup tight to his chest, and nodded to the paramedics who swooped in and scooped his bondmate and their cub up.

John didn’t recall standing, but he soon had Lestrade at his side supporting him as he wobbled on his feet.

“Let’s get you on the boat so you can be at the hospital with them. Come on.”

John leaned gratefully on his pack Alpha’s shoulder, whimpering his thanks and clinging to him.

“Bloody hell, are you going Sub on me?” Lestrade asked, “I’ve only seen you like this a few times, I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Hold me?” John pleaded, clutching at him as Lestrade lowered him into a seat and tucked in close beside him.

“Yeah, sure, just don’t tell Sherlock. He’ll kill me.” Lestrade chuckled before squeezing John tightly to imitate bondage. John went limp against Lestrade’s chest, closed his eyes, and dreamt of snowfall on two curly mops of dark brown hair.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/64987.html)


	28. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 28

John’s mother, Nancy, was pacing off to one side, rocking a still distraught BG as Sherlock lay barely conscious in his hospital bed. He would open his eyes every once in a while and say something rational, or insulting, or just plain obvious, but for the most part he simply slept and slept. The cot their new son slept on was constantly being visited by John as he shifted the baby out, changed his nappies, and pressed him to Sherlock’s chest to feed. There was no proper procedure involved in feeding the child. Sherlock was limp and mostly unresponsive so John simply lay the baby flat on his chest and let instinct take over. The cub would root around, whimper, scream in frustration at times, and eventually find a nipple and latch on; wiggling until the angle was right and the milk flowed. It broke John’s heart to see him struggle and hear him cry, but he knew the sounds would trigger Sherlock’s milk to let down and the baby would be stronger for it.

John had expected Sherlock’s chest to be larger, perhaps an A-cup at least, but they had remained barely-there breasts. It would be better for his pride when they vanished again after the new little one was weaned, but John despaired of the child getting enough milk.

“It’s not the size,” Nancy scolded as he worried his lip again, “it’s the production speed. He’ll just have to nurse more often, is all, but he’ll make the same amount I did with my big jugs. Most male Omegas do.”

Mycroft and Lestrade visited them, Mycroft holding his son possessively close since John and most other occupants of the room were still not allowed to touch him. No one was offended. Until they reached their first year- and sometimes not even then- only familial Omegas, the pack Alpha, and pack Beta’s were allowed to touch a baby. Once Rupert was a year old John would ask to hold him. If he were denied he would simply wait. From the way Mycroft shied away from John and John’s first-born son BG, he suspected he would be denied for several years. Eventually he was going to have to get Lestrade to intervene and find out why Mycroft apparently despised them both.

Still, Mycroft was their new child’s biological Omega relative, so John handed the baby over without hesitation. Mycroft smiled at him and tweaked his nose, but the little one was sound asleep with no intention of stirring. John wondered why this child was acceptable but BG was not; there was no scent difference anymore, not since he and Sherlock had bonded with BG no less than a few hours after Moran’s death. Mycroft passed the baby to Lestrade then, switching babies out with the ease of someone who had handled a newborn recently.

“What is his name, then?” Mycroft asked the room at large, still not speaking to John directly unless he had to. He had begun to send Anthea to John to get reports on Sherlock, starting after Sherlock’s furpile when BG’s conception with Moran was discovered.

“Sherlock hasn’t chosen yet,” John replied, speaking to him directly and once more being avoided.

“I’m sure he’ll think of something,” Mycroft smiled up at Greg, the picture of a happy Omega with his Alpha, son, and nephew.

“We’re going to need some girls in this family,” John joked, “it’s starting to look a bit lopsided.”

Lestrade chuckled, “Did you check? You wouldn’t be the first parent to mistake an Alpha girl for an undisclosed boy.”

John laughed, “I’ve changed a fair few nappies since I’ve been here. I think I’d have noticed if our baby was a hermaphrodite.”

Alpha females were the only gender to show immediately at birth. Some agreed it made them the most arrogant gender since their parents showered them with Alpha ideas from the time they were born. Omega and Beta females were somewhat obvious as well, since they were the only genders not born with a penis, but until their internal genitals finished developing around twelve years old it wouldn’t be clear if one had a sterile Beta or a fertile Omega. Since John and Sherlock were deviated in their gender/dynamic selection, it would be a full 18 to 25 years before they knew if their child were ‘normal’; though a geneticist John had spoken to had assured him their deviation was an abnormality, and not inheritable, John was still anxious. 

Sherlock took that moment to startle awake and glance around the room as though in surprise.

“Hello, love,” John spoke soothingly, and gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze, “Mycroft and Lestrade are here to see the baby. Would you like to hold him?”

John had made this offer before and been refused once- Sherlock had even looked at him as though he were mad- but the next time he made it the Omega had eagerly held out his arms for his son. Unfortunately he had drifted off again in the time it had taken John to fetch the baby. Now Sherlock stared at Lestrade in confusion and the Alpha rose and headed towards Sherlock with the baby in his arms. Sherlock peered at the bundle in apparent fascination, then held out his arms. John practically held his breath as Lestrade lowered the child to Sherlock’s chest and watched as his Omega gently wrapped his arms around their cub.

“My god, he’s real,” Sherlock stated, apparently not believing it until that moment, “but I can still feel him inside me.”

“That’s your body settling,” John explained, “You’ll feel like a baby is still rolling about as your uterus returns to it’s previous size. You might feel like you’re having contractions, too, for that matter. Especially when he’s nursing.”

“Oh, yes, quite right,” Sherlock muttered, raising a hand and running a finger over the tiny rosebud lips.

“Have you thought of a name?” John burst out, barely able to contain himself. Mycroft huffed, but John ignored him.

“No.”

“Would you like to hear some suggestions?” John plowed ahead.

“John, I really don’t think…” Mycroft started snootily, but Lestrade hushed him with a quiet scolding.

“No,” Sherlock answered, then paused, blinked up at John and changed his mind, “Yes. Go on, then.”

“Abraham, Aiden, Alastair, Ambrose…”

“Ambrose?!” Lestrade interrupted, pulling a face. John ignored him.

“Basil, Bradley, Caldwell, Cecil…”

“Is he going alphabetically from memory?” Lestrade asked Mycroft.

“We’ll be here all day,” Mycroft nodded in response, “Basil & Cecil? How utterly ordinary.”

“Chandler, Culver…”

“That’s quite enough,” Sherlock cut him off, but sat in silence a moment after John had stifled his recital.

“Do you want to…” John started, but Sherlock cut him off with a glare.

“Born of Fire,” Sherlock muttered, and John blinked in surprise.

“Aiden?” John questioned, recalling the meaning behind the name.

“That’s the one. Aiden Sherrinford Holmes-Watson.”

“Don’t you mean Watson-Holmes?” John asked automatically, not even _touching_ that middle name.

“No, I mean Holmes-Watson.”

“Alpha names come first for offspring. It would be Watson-Holmes.”

“Dom names come first for offspring, it will be Holmes-Watson.”

John blinked, turned that around in his head, and decided Sherlock was wrong.

“I’m pretty sure these things go by gender and not dynamic, Sherlock,” John insisted while shaking his head.

“Are you questioning me, _still_? Lestrade, kindly take John outside and punish him. I’d advise against physical punishment; he just enjoys it.”

“I… but… I…” John stammered.

“Sherlock, he’s got a point, and you can’t keep punishing him every time he voices an opinion,” Lestrade said with a sigh.

“But Baby Gregory is already Watson-Holmes!” Sherlock argued.

“I suppose that does sound fair,” John sighed, “Holmes-Watson it is.”

“Good. Now you can change him,” Sherlock stated, holding the ripe smelling child out to John.

John sighed and scooped him up. Mycroft and Lestrade grinned, made excuses, and fled the hospital room. John settled into what was likely to be routine as BG snuggled into his mother’s arms and babbled about how upset he’d been of late. Sherlock made sympathetic noises and apologized for leaving his baby alone for so long. BG pressed his head into Sherlock’s chest and refused to budge. Nancy had to pull him off so that John could help Sherlock hold Aiden to his chest to breastfeed properly for the first time.

“Bit awkward, this,” Sherlock muttered as John adjusted the angle of their squalling child’s head for him.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” John comforted, pressing a kiss to his forehead as the hungry child latched on and sucked eagerly.

“I… _ow!_ Care to explain why you _like it_ when I do this to you?” Sherlock demanded of John.

“Sherlock! My mother’s in the room!”

Nancy just chuckled and bounced a miserable BG in her arms, offering him a toy and a sippy cup to placate him. The room soon fell into domestic silence with only Aiden and BG’s contented noises filling the room. John sighed and leaned back, watching his Omega as happiness once again found it’s way into his heart. He hoped he could keep it for a bit longer this time.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/65084.html)


	29. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 29

BG 16 mos, Rupert 7 mos, Aiden 2 mos

It had been eight weeks since Aiden had been born. BG was a full sixteen months old (though by his birth certificate it was 14) and was spitting out full sentences and singing more than half of his alphabet. He could count to 8. John and Sherlock were ridiculously proud of him and had gotten eight PC’s together in one room just so BG could toddle across the floor counting them for Lestrade. Aiden had started early, much the Holmes boy, and was already declaring ‘da!’ on the top of his lungs.

“As brilliant as this is, I did call you two down for a case, you know,” Lestrade chuckled.

“Sorry, Greg, you know how it is,” John beamed, “How’s Ru, by the way?”

“Fine, fine, gaining weight finally, and _sleeping_. A real relief that is,” Lestrade replied with a grin, then excused himself as his phone rang.

John and Sherlock were looking over the case file; it was a 14-year-old cold case of a missing two year old that had just popped up with fresh information when the supposedly missing teen had turned up in a ditch… unfortunately dead. Sherlock was shaking his head and pressing kisses to Aiden’s thinning curls – they’d begun to fall out – when Lestrade came back into the room looking harassed.

“My is freaking out. Guess I was wrong about the sleeping. Turns out he’s just been sleeping with the baby in his arms in the rocking chair so the fussing when Ru wakes up to feed doesn’t wake me up. Now Rupert’s been awake for a record 13 hours and Mycroft is literally hysterical.”

“You’re heading home?” John asked.

“No, I can’t. I’ve got no more time left and My’s due on heat again in about four months. How the hell do you two manage with two kids?”

“We have a Beta living with us,” John replied when Sherlock only shrugged.

“Who’s living with us?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

“Mary is, but I really don’t think…” John replied.

“Since when?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Since you gave birth to Aiden.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, Sher,” John sighed, rubbing his forehead, “She’s living with Mrs. Hudson.”

“You’re… that’s disgusting.”

“A bit, yeah,” John agreed.

“Mrs. Hudson is seventy-five!”

John shrugged. Lestrade made a face. Sherlock looked like he might be ill.

“How have I not been aware of this?” Sherlock asked.

“You _are_ ,” John insisted, “We’ve had this conversation three times now. Every time you go down there and walk in on them you come upstairs, freak out, and then delete it. You need to either stop blocking it out or stop breaking into Mrs. Hudson’s flat whenever you want a cup of sugar!” John snapped irritably.

“We were out of sugar yesterday,” Sherlock replied in apparent shock.

“Yes. I remember. Vividly.” John replied flatly.

“I’m going call your mum, Sherlock, see if she can help,” Lestrade interrupted.

“She won’t,” Sherlock replied with a shrug, “She doesn’t want anything to do with the kids until they’re old enough to start lessons.”

“What lessons?” Lestrade and John both asked.

“Etiquette lessons,” Sherlock replied as though that were obvious, “For them to inherit the family title some day. Mycroft holds it now, since our brother Sherrinford died so young, but one of our children will have to take it on someday. The lessons start young and the title goes to the oldest breedable child.”

_Breedable child._ John thought, and saw Lestrade mouthing the same behind Sherlock’s back with a look of horror on his face.

“Well, we haven’t got a Beta lined up. I suppose Dr. Katinsky is busy with his practice and I never hit it off with Mary,” Lestrade sighed, rubbing his face in frustration.

“I’ll go over,” Sherlock replied, “Your missing person was abducted by a family member who uses drugs. Look to that and you’ll find your culprit. Death was natural causes by drug overdose.”

“Wait, Sher… I’m not so sure that’s such a good idea,” Lestrade started, looking tense.

“You mean because of John?” Sherlock asked.

“Well… yeah,” Lestrade admitted, looking miserable.

“What _is_ Mycroft’s problem with me?” John asked, not entirely sure he didn’t already know.

“Fuck if I know,” Lestrade replied with a shrug, “He just keeps telling me I’m imagining it. Hard to imagine him avoiding you and refusing to hold or look at his nephew.”

John nodded, glad he hadn’t been making a bigger deal out of it than he thought, but a bit hurt nonetheless.

“John will be caring for Mycroft while I take care of Rupert. Mycroft will have to either get over it or refuse our help,” Sherlock stated firmly, and then headed out the door with Aiden on his hip and BG toddling quickly after.

“Is it just me or does BG hold his head up like him?” Lestrade asked.

“God help me, yes he does,” John sighed, and hurried after his Dom and children.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft was sobbing as loudly as Rupert when John and his family walked in. He didn’t even question Sherlock taking the child from his arms and heading off to the nursery with him. He just sat there and rocked back and forth in misery as John fetched him a glass of water, some toast with butter in case he hadn’t eaten recently, and some paracetamol. He took everything obediently and leaned on John’s shoulder as the man guided him up to his and Lestrade’s bedroom. Once there he shut off the monitor, helped Mycroft undress, and tucked the sobbing aristocrat into bed. The man whimpered and fussed under the covers, apparently too distressed to sleep.

“Do you need to be bound?” John asked gently.

“You aren’t even a _Dom_.”

“No, but I’ve been taught how to be. I wouldn’t recommend a roll in the hay with me, though; apparently I’m a terrible lay. Well, Sherlock doesn’t think so, but another Sub would. So, handcuffs? Blindfold?”

“Both,” Mycroft sighed rolling onto his back and putting his arms up to the bondage rings in the dark wooden headboard.

John located the cuffs and blindfold in the bedside table and quickly put them in place, checking to make sure the leather cuffs were tight but allowed blood flow. Mycroft visibly relaxed, but soon started squirming again.

“There’s a waist cincher in the top dresser drawer. I’m afraid I’ll need that, too. Do you know how to put one on?”

“Sure, no problem,” John replied, fetching the item in question.

It was awkward putting it on with Mycroft lying down, but by the time he had the knot tied at the top and had checked to make sure nothing was being pinched harmfully, Mycroft was sound asleep, safe and secure. John sighed and left him momentarily to make sure Sherlock was managing with three babies.

Sherlock glanced up when John cautiously opened the door. Rupert was nowhere in sight, but another monitor was fastened to Sherlock’s hip so the child was somewhere safe and asleep. Sherlock was playing with BG on the floor and Aiden was on his belly stretching to reach a toy, but had a habit of inching backwards instead of forward.

“He fell asleep the second he and his mother were separated. Mycroft’s tension was getting to him. I think I see the problem, though; he needs to sleep in a swing instead of a bassinet. The poor thing wants movement. He’s in the den. I switched the monitors rather than move the swing here. They can sort it out themselves when Lestrade gets home.”

“Is that safe?”

“If the swing is a decent one, yes, at least until he starts trying to unbuckle himself. That one has a harness and reclines. I used a top swaddle so his legs were loose and could be placed in the harness. He’s out like a light; he’ll probably sleep for several hours like that. What about Mycroft?”

“I had to bind him up a bit, but he’s out, too. You’re right about how tense he was. I better get back and check on him, I don’t like leaving someone bound for long.”

Sherlock nodded and went back to playing with BG while John put himself in the rocking chair in Mycroft’s room and found a book to read by a small lamp there.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Mycroft woke up about ten hours later he was alarmed and frantic until John sat on him and pulled the blindfold off, shouting at him to calm down. The man went limp and John carefully unbound him while explaining to him what had gone on.

“Your husband called a few hours ago to check up on you. I told him I’d tell him when you woke and he decided to stay a bit later to catch up on some backlog. The baby woke up about three hours ago and Sherlock nursed him, he said you wouldn’t mind.”

“Aside from the fact my own tits feel like they’re going to explode, I suppose it’s fine,” Mycroft groused.

“He said you should pump immediately while I get you food.”

“That would be acceptable.”

John hurried out of the room while Mycroft rubbed his wrists and came up fairly soon with some re-heated stew he’d found in the fridge.

“Surprised there isn’t snails in this,” John joked.

“Gregory insists I need _hearty_ food,” Mycroft growled, nodding to a lap tray beside the bed. He was pumping both breasts at once and it looked horribly painful.

John set up the table and the food and went to the bathroom to fetch a glass of water. When he returned Mycroft was just popping the suction cups off his chest and started to hand John the containers of milk before suddenly growling and snatching them back.

“Right. Don’t handle your baby’s food. Got it. I’ll just fetch Sherlock, shall I?”

“Do that!” Mycroft snapped.

John headed out, wondering if _that_ was normal, or if it was more of Mycroft’s odd behavior to him, but Sherlock assured him it was normal and headed up to take care of the milk for Mycroft.

“He wants you back upstairs. Doesn’t want you near the milk or Rupert. Having a bit of a fit, actually,” Sherlock replied calmly.

“Going,” John said with a sigh, and then paused, “Do _you_ know why he’s acting so odd towards me?”

“I suspect it’s to do with _him_ ,” Sherlock replied, and didn’t have to specify whom.

John shivered as memories of Moran tying him down and raping him flashed to the surface, but of course Mycroft wouldn’t see that part as rape, just the part where John had been penetrated until he nearly bled out. Submissives became aroused when Dominated, and while usually that Sub was also an Omega, John had still felt uncontrollably aroused and hated himself for every orgasm that had been wrenched from his body. Especially when the resulting pregnancy nearly tore himself and Sherlock apart. Still, he couldn’t be entirely resentful when BG looked up at him with those beautiful dark eyes. They were Moran’s coloring; they had started blue and slowly shifted to brown, but John never saw them as his old Master’s eyes. They were BG’s eyes: his first-born son’s eyes. They were beautiful.

John headed upstairs and Mycroft met him half way, scowling. He herded the reluctant Omega back to bed and got the man to eat his stew, brush his teeth, shower, and then collapse back into bed. Then he recalled he was supposed to tell Lestrade what was going on, so he quickly texted him. He also mentioned the swing and Lestrade asked he move it up to their bedroom.

Once the swing was installed, Sherlock placed the once more sleeping Rupert back inside, strapped him in, and turned out the lights. Mycroft was sleeping unbound this time and Sherlock decided they could leave.

“Did you resolve things with Mycroft?” Sherlock asked on the way out the door.

“It didn’t feel like the right time,” John replied with a sigh, “He accepted my help but I can tell he was resentful about it.”

“He’ll come around. Or I’ll scream at him until he does. Either or.”

John gave his lover a smirk as they stepped into 221B. They had just settled the kids down to bed when John’s mobile ran. Worried that it was Lestrade again, he hurried to answer it.

“Johnny, you need to come home for a bit, and bring that detective of yours,” A gravely voice stated without so much as a hello.

“Sorry, who is this?”

“Your father! The bastard who raised you?!”

_Got the bastard part right…_

“Right. Dad. Sorry, just tired, you know. Kids and all.”

“Yeah, I suppose being a Sub you do all the work, eh?”

“Oh, no, we split it, but what did you call about?” John asked, feeling a bit irked by the man as usual.

“I need your detective friend. Got a case for him at the farm.”

“Oh, well… I’ll try, but he’s very particular on what cases he takes, and with the kids and all…”

“Oh, he’ll want to take this one. See, someone vandalized my property; dug a deep hole in my back yard. Can you believe that? Dug up your son’s umbilical cord and placenta, stole those, and then just kept digging for some god damn reason. Now why would someone do that?”

John felt all the air rush out of the room and gasped for breath.

_Moran_.

[CHAPTER THIRTY](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/65384.html)   



	30. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 30

Plot? What Plot?

Squick Warning: Sexualized Nursing.

John was upside down on the couch, the blood rushing to his head (what wasn’t already firmly trapped in his engorged cock) with Sherlock thrusting eagerly into his willing mouth. He barely had a gag reflex anymore, and had discovered an unparalleled joy in swallowing Sherlock’s prick down his throat. He was most definitely developing an oral fixation. He couldn’t help but crave the feel of velvet-encased steel that was Sherlock’s dripping rod. Nothing made him pant more than the taste of the spongy head as he slid back Sherlock’s foreskin and ran his tongue around the tip.

Sherlock groaned out his release and John swallowed it down greedily, breathing in the smell of Sherlock’s bollocks, which had been resting on his nose, once the man pulled out a bit once more. Nothing was better than the smell of aroused Omega, especially that close to his hot, wet orifice. Sweat, skin, fluids- John was practically high and greedily sucked Sherlock back down his throat.

“Oh my fucking god!” Sherlock shouted, giving a few deep thrusts before pulling out till only the tip remained so John could breath.

John moaned enthusiastically, grabbed Sherlock’s arse and tugged him back in again, but quickly abandoned his intention to control the thrusts in favor of fingering Sherlock’s dripping entrance. Sherlock gripped his cock with one hand and fisted it almost frantically.

_Had enough already?_ John wondered as Sherlock squeezed his growing knot until John was practically hyperventilating on his cock.

“Oh, fuck, John!” Sherlock cried out, spilling down this throat again. He was out far enough this time that John got to taste his bitter release so he ran his tongue around the tip to gather it all up before swallowing it down, “FUCK!”

“Mmmmmm,” John agreed, tugging Sherlock down his throat again.

Sherlock pressed his cock all the way down John’s throat and abandoned his attempts to hold himself up in favor of fondling his cock with both hands. One stroked the shaft and rotated the palm over the head of John’s cock while the other squeezed his knot and rubbed his thumb across his tight balls. John moaned appreciatively, nearly gagged, and then swallowed a few more times. He ceased all attempts at anything involving breathing or swallowing as he came; his come had to have splattered all across Sherlock’s chest, it came out so explosively. Sherlock pulled his cock from John’s mouth and he gasped, falling sideways onto the couch and then toppling to the floor as his head exploded with white splotches as air re-entered his longs and blood fled his skull. He had a pounding headache, but he was no stranger to that as it happened often enough after hitting subspace. Sherlock had collapsed onto the couch, looking dazed as he panted up at the ceiling.

John gave his head a few shakes then crawled over to his shocked Omega, pressed hands to his knees to steady himself, and leaned forward to lick his leavings off of Sherlock’s hairless chest.

“Jooooohn,” Sherlock groaned, head thrown back and writhing a bit, “Tell me you’re still hard.”

“Like a fucking rock.”

“In. Now.” Sherlock weakly spread his legs, but that didn’t slow John down from grabbing those thighs and lifting them so he could thrust into that lovely loosened entrance.

Sherlock swore like a sailor as John brushed against his sensitive prostate, but didn’t argue it so John didn’t hold back, though he didn’t knot him just yet. It felt too good to slide in and out of that dripping hole again and again. His thrusts became faster and John felt Sherlock beginning to clench, so he buried his knot inside of him and they both rode out their orgasms with breathless moans.

John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment, then grabbed the nearby pillows and stuffed them beneath his Omega’s back so it arched towards him.

“What are you…” Sherlock asked then moaned as John went back to licking the sticky mess from Sherlock’s chest and as low down as he could reach.

“Mmmmm,” John moaned greedily, making Sherlock chuckle a bit.

“You are truly a glutton, John,” Sherlock teased.

“Says the man who never eats and has to be talked into sex,” John scolded.

“I was _busy_. I was in the middle of an experiment.”

“Feel like experimenting more?”

“Oh? How?” Sherlock asked, raising one elegant eyebrow.

John ran his tongue around the Sherlock’s dripping nipple in response, peering up through his eyelashes to see his response. Sherlock’s eyebrows nearly disappeared in shock.

“You have enough milk stored for Aiden, don’t you?”

Sherlock snorted, “I could feed three Aiden’s on the milk I make.”

“Then you can spare some for your orally compulsive lover.”

“That’s just si… uhnnnn,” Sherlock moaned as John cut off his condemning words by giving his nipple a gentle suckle, “At least you’re more gentle than Aiden is…”

Sherlock’s nipples had long since adjusted to Aiden’s suckling, they were no longer chaffed and red, causing him to cry out if his shirts brushed them the wrong way. Now John could enjoy the feel of them, the nipples larger and rougher than they had been months ago; they were also spongy, much like the head of Sherlock’s lovely pink cock. The surrounding raised tissue was hard rather than soft like a woman’s, of course that was because they were filled with milk at the moment, which John was greedily sucking down. He pinched the opposite breast when it began to leak copiously in anticipation of a mouth to suckle it.

“I _hate_ them like this. They stick out two full centimeters and are constantly hard!” Sherlock complained.

“Mmmmm, s’hot,” John muttered, swallowing the sweet substance down. It was so _good_ , especially after the salty bitterness of come. It tasted a bit like cantaloupe and when he pulled off to speak it sprayed across his chin and upper lip.

Sherlock’s eyes widened at seeing that and he squirmed a bit. John doubted Sherlock had another orgasm in him, but _John_ did and he was eagerly grinding his hips in pursuit of that goal. Sherlock caught on to his need and began to rhythmically clench his muscles. John was soon moaning eagerly and he switched to the other breast to eagerly devour the delicate substance down. Sherlock was panting a bit, his eyes glazed as he watched John’s mouth pull from him with obvious enthusiasm.

John loved the feel of those tiny tits in his mouth. They weren’t the shapely orbs of women past, and he wouldn’t have wanted them to be; he loved how masculine Sherlock smelled and looked and wouldn’t change that for the world. These would disappear and he wouldn’t miss them… but he might need to find something else to suck on.

John popped off Sherlock’s teat, head thrown back in pleasure as he filled his Omega full of hot seed once more. His lust-fogged mind dimly registered something hot and moist spraying him, but wrote it off as Sherlock’s orgasm until he recalled the man was spent. John glanced down and found his chest covered in milk from the breast he’d popped off of. It had dropped down to a drip now, but had gotten a fair amount across his chest first. Sherlock gave John a hesitant look, then leaned forward awkwardly and licked some off of him. John moaned and shuddered a bit in muted pleasure.

The position was too difficult to hold for long, so Sherlock slumped back and John rested his head against his lover’s shoulder until he was soft enough to slip from his abused hole.

“That was fucking awesome,” John stated enthusiastically.

“Neanderthal,” Sherlock snickered.

“Oh, well then,” John scooped Sherlock off the couch and tossed him into a fireman’s carry.

“Hey!” Sherlock shouted in alarm, “What are you doing?!”

“Me carry mate to cave. Make many cubs.”

Sherlock laughed as John maneuvered down the hall and tossed him on the bed.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it,” John panted, straddling his waist and pressing a kiss to his full lips.

“I love you,” Sherlock corrected.

John caught his breathe, shocked and pleased, and Sherlock looked away in embarrassment.

“Hey, you can say that, you know? I love you, too.”

“Yes you… you _complete_ me, John.”

“I’d better,” John sighed and pressed another kiss to his lover’s cheek, “No one else is up for the job.”

“No one else could _handle_ it.”

John laughed and threw himself down beside Sherlock, giddy with love, satisfied in multiple ways, and utterly exhausted.

“By the way, we had a visitor while you were head down, cock up.”

“What? Who?”

“Lestrade, Mycroft, and Rupert stopped by. They were a bit… flustered. My and Ru left quickly enough, but Lestrade just stood there and stared for a bit.”

John gaped at Sherlock then burst out laughing.

“That’s, what, the second time he’s seen me at your mercy?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Might want to let him know I don’t do threesomes. I’m not sharing you with anyAlpha.”

“I’ll mention it next time I see him.”

“You do that,” John snickered, “Good thing Rupert is too young to process what was happening. I hope that teaches them not to just let themselves in.”

“Mmmm.”

John curled up then and slowly drifted off, chuckling occasionally as he thought of the look on Mycroft and Lestrade’s faces.

[CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/65709.html)


	31. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 31

“It’s… _clean,_ ” Sherlock stated, glancing around John’s parent’s backyard with a frustrated look on his face, “The only footprints are your father’s and ours. There are signs of the footprints being _covered up_ , which saves me from declaring this act done by a winged creature straight out of legends, but other than that…”

Sherlock glanced around again, knelt to stare hard at the ground as though it were intentionally denying him answers, and then stood and marched quickly into the barn. John followed with BG on his hip and Aiden in a carrier. They were both quite somber, having picked up their parent’s moods, and Aiden whimpered and put his arms out for Sherlock as the man paced to and fro in the barn. He was examining the stall, where Moran had spent the last months of his life, before heading out into the middle of the floor where he had died on a table.

“Clean. All of it. Perfectly clean.”

“You cleaned this area up after BG was born,” John reminded gently.

“Yes, but it’s been _re-cleaned_.”

“Is that a word?”

“Shut up.”

John huffed but otherwise remained silent. If he spoke out of turn Sherlock would send him off somewhere rather than order him silent or ignore him, and John didn’t want to miss anything. Sherlock paced again and then hurried outside and back into the farmhouse.

“Where is the table Moran died on?” Sherlock demanded of Hamish, his eyes narrowed suspiciously and his demeanor interrogatory.

“The barn, where we keep all the extra stuff now that we don’t keep cattle. We’ve just got the chickens, ducks, and…”

“No it isn’t, I’ve just come from there. There _is_ no table.”

“So they took a body, BG’s placenta and cord box, and a table?” Nancy asked.

“And the dirt surrounding Moran’s body,” Sherlock continued, “And they _cleaned_.”

“Well, when you find them invite them over for tea!” Nancy exclaimed with a laugh, “I could use criminals like that around here. Pity they didn’t rob the house seeing as how I forgot to put the trash out that same night.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head, but smiled at her indulgently. Subs could get away with far more around Sherlock than Doms of late. John thought he might have something to do with it, but wasn’t about to ask.

BG was squirming to be put down so John took him into the den to play with some toys his Gram had brought out for him. He set upon them enthusiastically and John gently lowered Aiden to the floor as well. Aiden immediately set about doing baby pushups and glaring at the out of reach toys. He was quite put out so John started urging him to crawl forward and get them; he was a bit late for crawling and John was beginning to worry. Rupert was already running circles around him and had disregarded him in favor of playing with BG despite the fact Sherlock and Mycroft had been pregnant around the same time.

“Sherlock, he’s still not crawling…”

“So you said yesterday! Leave it alone!” Sherlock snapped irritably.

John sighed and headed back into the kitchen, leaning against the doorway where he could hear the conversation in one room and watch the kids in the other.

“Do you think it was Mycroft?” John suggested as Sherlock continued his pacing in the kitchen.

“No,” Sherlock stated firmly.

“I mean, cleaning up the scene… maybe it’s his way of putting it all behind us? You did say you thought that was why he was pissed at me,” John reminded.

“No.”

“Care to elaborate?” John sighed in frustration.

“Mycroft would have gloated before we’d managed to drive all this way; probably before even Hamish here noticed,” Sherlock stated with a look that told John he should have figured that out himself.

“Ah, good point,” John nodded, “What about Lestrade? He’s seen your methods. If he put two and two together, which he’d have to be rather dense not to have, then he could probably apply your own methods to cleaning up the scene. Being a Yarder he’d know where to dump a body and the other evidence where it would never be found.”

“It wouldn’t have been found _here_. No one had a reason to _look!”_ Sherlock snarled, “Besides, this feels like trophy collecting, which is something serial killers do.”

Sherlock threw himself down in a chair and John felt a sulk coming on so he asked his mum to watch the kids. Nancy smiled and headed into the den, happy to play with her little grandbabies. He glanced in to see her wiping a tear away; she had remarked when they first stepped in that Aiden reminded her of Harry when she was that age. He had no idea how his parents were coping. When he went to tell them about Harry’s death he found out some stranger already had. They had simply sat him down at the kitchen table and they’d all had tea together in complete silence. No one had spoken about Harry; there wasn’t much nice to say and you didn’t speak ill of the dead. Still, it was her daughter, her cub, who had died over in Venezuela, and they hadn’t even gotten to see her one last time. John had brought her ashes back in a container that had vanished into their house; they weren’t displaying it next to his grandparent’s ashes, so John had no idea what had happened to them. Perhaps they’d taken them to Dublin.

John stood behind Sherlock and carded his fingers through his Dom’s hair.

“Do you want anything, love?” John asked softly, knowing direct questions would be cut to the quick.

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock ground out.

“What do you want?” John asked, leaving his question neutral, but adding just enough purr so that Sherlock could allow himself to be distracted by sex if he so wanted.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, but he still raised an inquiring eyebrow anyway. Hamish scoffed and left the room with a look of disgust on his face.

“John, if I were to vanish off the face of the earth, what would you do?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

John felt his insides clench painfully and his mind’s eye saw Sherlock jumping from a rooftop…

“I’d pack up the kids and search the entire world for you until the day I either found you or died of old age. Why?”

“Because I’m wondering who would do that for Moran.”

“You think this was a lover or a bondmate?”

“He had several of both. It’s entirely possible that someone actually gave a flying fuck about him.”

“He killed all his Alpha Subs.”

“All the ones we knew about, what about others? What about ones that left or that he dismissed?”

John was silent, turning that idea over in his head. He’d been brainwashed by Moran; he knew the compulsion to worship him that he had instilled in all of his lovers.

“There’s one other option,” John suggested timidly.

“Oh, what?” Sherlock asked, with the air of someone humoring a child.

“Perhaps Moriarty really isn’t dead. Moran and he were lovers, and he was clever enough to figure this all out and pull something like this off.”

“The thought crossed my mind, but I believe it is unlikely.”

“Why?”

“I watched him die,” Sherlock stated as though that settled things.

“I watched _you_ die,” John reminded; glad he could keep the pain out of his voice finally.

“Yes, but you’re a bit slow, though, no don’t get upset. Compared to me practically everyone is.”

John mouthed the last sentence while Sherlock was saying it from behind the Doms back, rolling his eyes in annoyance. Well, he’d gotten used to the man’s insults and never took them seriously anymore. Sherlock respected him… in his own way.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade called them as they were on their way back from the farm and Sherlock practically sighed in relief; they needed the distraction of a case. Two hours later they were at the morgue studying the body of Miss Tracy Dupont, who had been found with her throat slit in Hyde Park. That wasn’t so shocking, but Miss Dupont had been a wealthy Beta woman prone to going to suave gyms as opposed to jogging through Hyde Park.

“There wasn’t enough blood at the scene to be the primary, but when we went to her flat there was only a few ounces there, and Anderson said it looked more like it had been dumped onto the floor. It was in her bathroom.”

“It hasn’t been cleaned up?”

“Nope, that scene’s barely disturbed.”

They headed over immediately but were there for a less than a minute before Sherlock stormed out in disgust, his face slightly flushed as though embarrassed. The puddle on the floor had been small, true, but it had also been thick. John had watched as he’d given it a startled look, knelt down and sniffed it, and then fled the flat. John trailed after him in confusion.

“ _That_ ,” Sherlock told Lestrade from the hallway with a look of revulsion on his face, “Is not your primary scene.”

“The blood-” Lestrade started.

“-Is not from her throat,” Sherlock snapped.

“Where’s it from then? Another victim?”

“What? No! It’s from the victim but… tell your new mortuary assistant to look internally,” Sherlock snapped, then practically fled from them.

“Internal bleeding?” Lestrade asked John, who shrugged.

“It didn’t look like any type of splatter I’ve ever scene. More like it was in a container and the container was dropped. Did you see that smooth edge?” John suggested.

“Yeah, like something had blocked it or something, but we didn’t find anything around it.”

John shrugged and Lestrade sighed before calling Francis, the new coroner. In a moment he had their answer, but Lestrade seemed reluctant to convey it. Instead he passed the phone to John, who listened to the man chortle for a moment before answering.

“Moon Cup. There was a Moon Cup inside of her,” Francis laughed, “That’s what spilled the blood on the floor.”

“Sorry, a what?” John asked.

“A Moon Cup?” The man answered, as though that gave more information, “A Diva Cup? It’s just what it sounds like. A little silicone cup women stick up inside them to catch their fluids when they’re menstruating or after a failed Heat. She must have dropped it on the floor and not bothered to clean up her mess, the spoiled, disgusting thing.”

“What on earth is _menstruating_ and how is it like a failed heat?” John asked, recalling when Sherlock passed blood for an hour a few days after the failed Heat just before Aiden was conceived. Sherlock had been horrified and locked the bathroom door, but he hadn’t needed a _cup_ to catch it.

“Menstruating? It’s something that happens to some Beta women; they bleed out their private parts for a few days each month. Something similar happens to all Omegas who aren’t on suppressants after a failed Heat, but you just don’t hear about it much because Omegas are either on suppressants or pregnant; besides not many Heats actually fail. Usually these Beta women use lube pads to catch the blood, but some of them want to be green so they use these. The Moon Cup’s original design was for lube too, but only women use them because they aren’t designed for males; and apparently Beta women use them for bleeding.”

“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of,” John stated when he had passed the phone back to Lestrade, who looked a bit green.

“Imagine, walking around bleeding but not getting ill or dying?” Lestrade asked in confusion.

“Weird,” They both echoed.

Sherlock took that moment to return, looking utterly furious.

“Lestrade, from here on out I refuse to work a crime scene that _Anderson_ has gone over. The man is useless. There’s no reason whatsoever that I should have been subjected to _that!_ Any forensic expert worth his salt should have known what that was! I am a _genius_ , for me to have to identify… _that_! _”_

John and Lestrade gaped at each other.

“Sherlock,” John chuckled, “We’ve been to scenes with bodies put thru wood choppers-“

“-People who’d been in the water so long they literally popped when you went to move them-“ Lestrade cut in.

“-Then there was that fellow slowly melted with acid-“

“-The one fed to piranhas while still alive-“

“-That poor sod with the pet bear-“

Sherlock cut in, “Get. Rid. Of. Anderson! Sally isn’t even seeing him anymore. She’s gone and married someone else, though heaven knows Anderson may not have figured it out yet, despite the bondmark she keeps rubbing all bloody day... _Regardless_ of your opinions, _that_ was the most disgusting scene I’ve ever been to and it’s Anderson’s fault!”

Lestrade and John laughed as the man stormed back to the elevators once more.

[CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/65828.html)


	32. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 32

“What,” Mycroft snarled, “Was so bloody secretive that you had to refuse to speak to Anthea and demand my presence?!”

John Watson-Holmes stared down the aristocratic Mycroft Holmes-Lestrade and smiled coldly at him. For months now, ever since BG’s conception had been made known, Mycroft had been avoiding John like a jilted lover. All through BG, Aiden, and his own son’s birth; all through Venezuela and the madness that entailed; even when John had been required to take care of him when his son Rupert hadn’t slept for hours and Mycroft had been at his wits end. Now here they stood, sounding more like employer and recalcitrant lackey than pack, and John was utterly done.

“I wanted to tell you I won’t be doing this anymore after today, but first I’ll be giving you my last report since it really isn’t fair to just cut you off.”

“Well, out with it then!” Mycroft snapped.

“Moran’s body has been absconded with; Sherlock hasn’t got any leads other than he thinks it might be an old lover.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in surprise, but nodded nonetheless. He’d probably known at least some of that.

“Is that all?”

“He won’t be speaking to you anymore. Sherlock’s cutting you off, too.”

“I beg your pardon? My brother and I hardly have the ideal relationship…”

“Well now you have none. If Greg wants to arrange for the kids to meet, that’s fine, but you can’t be a part of it. Sherlock’s making attempts to block your little CCTV cameras from our flat right now. You know how stubborn he is; your eyes and ears at Baker Street are about to disappear.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Mycroft barked angrily, “What has this got to do with Moran?”

“Nothing. This has to do with you and me.”

“I am fully _sick_ and tired of your manipulation of my brother!” Mycroft shouted.

John laughed, “You’re sick of _me_ manipulating him? Oh, that’s rich.”

“If I had known that you would eventually break his heart I’d have shot you the day we first met,” Mycroft hissed, so angry his voice had dropped to a near whisper, “I’d have sunk you so deep into the Thames that the _fish_ wouldn’t have been able to find you.”

“Break his heart? I haven’t _broken_ his heart. I’m _married_ to him. We’re raising our kids together!”

“He’s raising _your_ kids, as in your illegitimate one and one of his own, who receives far less attention for the mass Sherlock has to shower on yours in compensation. Is Aiden even crawling yet?”

John swallowed, but had no response.

“You weren’t there during his furpile, John,” Mycroft continued, “You didn’t see the light go out of his eyes, the hope out of his heart. Even in the deepest pits of depression, even when strung out on cocaine for days at a time, even when faced with our father’s _death_ , even while apart from you while faking his _own_ death, never did Sherlock reach the point where nothing, _nothing_ mattered to him anymore. You took what made my brother tick – his brilliant deductive reasoning - and gave it more meaning and substance to him and the entire world, and then _made it_ _meaningless._ He couldn’t even care about his precious ‘work’ when you walked out on him; none of it mattered. His own life was worthless to him, and the worse part is you _knew it would be._ You took the time to call up my husband and make sure he was there to keep Sherlock alive until it was _convenient_ for you to return to him!”

“If you think for one second that I wanted any of that then you’re more delusional than Moran and Moriarty combined, or are you forgetting that I had BG to worry about? I couldn’t just let him _kill_ my _child._ Of course, perhaps I’m expecting a bit much from a man who decided it would be best to keep his pregnancy secret for fucking _months_ while he tried to decide whether or not to illegal kill off his husbands baby!”

Mycroft slapped him, but John was hardly impressed.

“You _insignificant_ …!”

“I’m sure that’s _exactly_ how Greg felt!”

Mycroft’s umbrella connected with the side of John’s head and he staggered to the side, but still made no move to respond. Instead he continued with his own tirade:

“You talk about how crushed Sherlock was, but you _never_ take Greg’s feelings into consideration. Or Sherlock’s! Do you think I’m here telling you this because I _want_ to? I’ve already lost a sibling. I’m _against_ Sherlock cutting you out, but here I am anyway because he ordered me to be. You think you can just punish _one_ of us? He’s my _husband_. The mother of my _kids_ , and yes, I count BG as his! So does he! You think you can hold a grudge against me for what I did? You should thank your lucky stars that I don’t hold it against you that you _killed my sister_!”

Mycroft paled, his lips actually trembling: “How did you…? When did you…? You weren’t to know that.”

“Sherlock figured it out and told me without thinking, like usual. Did you think you’d been clever about it? Be glad they were a Perfect Match; the coroner didn’t even try to determine cause of death.”

“It was a mercy killing, John,” Mycroft stammered, his face pinched in misery, “She was in agony. I swear to you it was for her benefit.”

“Don’t you think I know that? You’d be dead already if that weren’t the case.”

Mycroft stared down at the ground for a moment, tapping his umbrella several times, before raising his head and meeting John’s eyes.

“I owe you an apology.”

“You owe Sherlock one. I say we’re even.”

“He’s here?”

“Probably not. He’d have stopped you hitting me.”

Mycroft nodded and sighed, rubbing his forehead in frustration.

“I’ll… go and find him then,” Mycroft sighed. John had never seen him look so utterly defeated.

John nodded and turned smartly before heading back to the car Anthea had sent for him earlier. He slid in while Mycroft slipped into another. When John got home Sherlock wasn’t there. Oddly enough neither was his umbrella, but it wasn’t due to rain that day.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock returned several hours later looking emotionally drained and collapsed onto the couch beside John.

“Where are the kids?” John asked in alarm.

“Mary,” Sherlock replied softly.

_Oh, well that’s a bit not good. Where’s my asshat Dom at?_

“You okay?” John ventured.

“No,” Still quietly.

“What happened?”

“I lost my temper and… John I think things have significantly changed between Mycroft and I.”

“How do you mean?” John asked; paling a bit at the thought he’d ruined their relationship for good.

“I punished him,” Sherlock whispered, and John gaped at him, “We’ve never been like that, Dom and Sub, he’s the older brother and I’ve deferred to him, but today I _punished_ him. I ordered him to his knees and had him hold my umbrella over his head in both hands for two hours. His arms were shaking…”

_Sherlock_ was shaking, and John recognized it for what it was. Topdrop. Sherlock was well and truly in the midst of topdrop. John dropped to his knees between Sherlock’s legs and spoke consoling words while carefully and quickly checking his pockets to make sure he didn’t have any weapons on him. At the same time he checked for wounds, even rolling his sleeves up to check for needle marks.

“Sherlock, you only did what you thought was right. Mycroft is a grown man. He could have used his Safeword at any point in time and I’m sure you would have stopped. Now, try to focus on the rules from school: What Would Daddy Dom Do?”

WWDD: What Would Daddy Dom Do? It was an acronym to help guilt-stricken Doms remember that they punished for a reason.

Why did you feel the need to punish?  
Was the punishment safe?  
Did the punishment fit the crime?  
Do you need to apologize?  
Did you provide aftercare as needed?

Sherlock took a deep breath as John climbed into his lap and stroked a hand through his curls.

“He struck you, twice, once with an object, without my permission; yes the punishment was called for. Long overdue, in fact, when his previous behavior was taken into account. I caused no permanent harm, so yes the punishment was safe. I would rather have beaten him with that damn brolly, but he’s a bigger masochist than _you_ are, so no the punishment didn’t fit the crime. No, I absolutely will _not_ apologize!”

John smiled as Sherlock went from despondent and shell shocked to furious in a heartbeat. He dumped John sideways onto the couch and began pacing the room in a fit of temper.

“Aftercare?!” Sherlock threw his hands up in the air, “He just sneered at me and asked if I was through, then hopped into the car and drove off with Anthea! He has ignored and snubbed you for two years, John! _Two years_! Nearly seventeen months of BG’s life, who he also transferred that behavior on! Do you realize BG calls Greg his uncle, but not Mycroft? He doesn’t even _know_ Mycroft’s name! I mention him and he just blinks! His own uncle!”

“It’s tragic, I know,” John nodded his head and agreed with Sherlock just to keep him going.

“It’s a fucking _travesty_!”

“That, too, yeah.”

“Who the _hell_ does he think he is?”

“Mycroft Holmes, the most powerful man in the country,” John replied automatically, if a bit sarcastically, but then winced when he realized what he’d just said.

“Fucking hell I just Dom’d…” Sherlock sank into his chair this time and gave the wall a horrified look.

“Sher, now don’t start that again. WWDDD, remember?”

“He’s practically _running_ this country!”

“Well if it’s any consolation to you, I don’t think he’ll toss you out of it.”

John’s phone took that moment to ring and he checked it automatically despite the situation.

“It’s Lestrade,” John said with a wince. This time of night he doubted it was a case.

“Well, answer it.” Sherlock insisted, looking anxious.

_Fuck, Sherlock just Dom’d our pack Alphas sub. Our pack could fall apart for this!_

“Greg,” John stated when he answered the phone.

“My’s in subdrop, can you two come over?” Greg asked, his voice full of worry.

“Sherlock’s in topdrop,” John said with a sigh.

“No I am _not_!” Sherlock snarled.

“Okay, he says he’s not.”

Greg snorted, “Yeah, so do I when I’m in it. Aren’t we a fucking circus? My will be easier to move than Sherlock, can I bring him over or do you need us out of the way?”

“You’re the best pack Alpha in the world, you know that?”

“Why? Not that I’m disagreeing…”

“Do you know why My’s in subdrop?”

“Not the details, but I’m guessing from his hysterical sobbing about his familial Dom being mad at him – and seeing how his pop is dead – that Sherlock finally punished his stubborn arse?”

“Yeah, and you’re fine with that?”

“He didn’t hurt him and they’re family. Sherlock’s got a right to punish his Sub brother if he feels he needs it. Doesn’t need my permission.”

“They’ve never acted on their dynamic before, Greg, this is a first.”

“… Shit.”

“Yeah, a bit. Hang on… Sherlock?” John asked the man who was staring him down during the call, “Do you want My over? He’s a bit under the weather.”

Sherlock thought a moment, looked anxious, then nodded. John waited while Greg asked My if he wanted to see his brother, then said he was refusing to leave the house. John checked with Sherlock then promised to come over instead. 

XXXXXXXXXXX

The furpile was taking place in Mycroft and Lestrade’s bedroom, which gave John pause, but Sherlock just climbed in without hesitation. He wrapped himself around his brother and they nuzzled their noses and pressed their cheeks together much the way BG and Aiden snuggled; the boys were with Mary and Rupert in Ru’s playroom. John smiled softly at the two brothers and nodded to another Alpha who had brought her Sub over; the petite young woman snuggled into the bed and sat at their heads, stroking both their heads and talking to Mycroft softly.

“John,” John murmured his introduction, and held a hand out.

“Ruth, I’m from Lestrade’s old building. I don’t think I saw you at the last one?”

“No, we were away. Sherlock was having a difficult pregnancy with our oldest.”

“Oh, yes, I heard about that. We have three little ones ourselves, the first pregnancy is always the most difficult.”

“I hope so,” John chuckled, “Since he seems ready for another already.”

“How many do you want?”

“Oh, gods, dozens if Sher can manage it.”

“Me, too!”

Donovan came in at that moment, her arm wrapped protectively around her pretty pale Sub. John smiled warmly at them both and headed over, waiting for Apple Blossom to glance his way before approaching her. The poor traumatized little thing was still skittish around Alphas, but she’d met John before and extended a hand without hesitating.

“I just wanted to warn you that Sherlock – the male Omega with dark curls – he’s an Omega Dom, not a Sub… he’s also a bit of an ass.”

“Oh, yeah, Sally warned me,” Apple Blossom giggled, blushing a bit. John didn’t ask what Sally had said – he doubted it was tactful – but Apple didn’t seem inclined to fear him so he supposed it wasn’t too bad.

Apple Blossom – Abby to her friends – climbed nervously onto the bed and hovered at the edge until she was noticed. She was Donovan’s sub, so technically a pack member, but hadn’t been acknowledged by the other Omegas yet.

“I… I’m Abby… I’m Sally Donovan’s Sub… Hi…”

Sherlock smirked, “Finally another red head. Look My, you can stop _sulking_ now.”

Mycroft glanced up, raised an eyebrow, and chuckled a bit before holding out a welcoming hand. Abby slipped into the group, ending up between Sherlock and Mycroft, and was welcomed with curious sniffing and a few gentle licks. Mycroft decided her chest was comfortable and buried his face in it. Sally almost stepped forward to intervene, but John held a hand out and they both breathed a sigh of relief when Abby only smiled and petted Mycroft’s auburn locks.

Mycroft wasn’t in tears as John had expected, apparently once Rupert had started sleeping his constant weepiness had gone out the window. He was quiet, though, and not in a healthy way. John could see his mind turning the events of the last two years over in his head again and again; he was torturing himself and needed to find a way to forgive and forget. John was just starting to wonder if the punishment _hadn’t_ been enough – if Sherlock and Lestrade should go at him until he made peace with it – when Lestrade leaned over to him.

“All well between you two, now?”

“Far as I’m concerned. He apologized. Holmes style, but I accepted it. Sent him to Sherlock. He’s more crushed than I was.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Listen, I need a word with you when this is over. There’s… there’s some unfinished stuff between us, yeah? Long past time to deal with it.”

John knew what he meant, but decided a joke was in order instead, “If it’s about all those times you walked in on us shagging, my answer is still no, Greg; I’m a one Dom sort of man.”

Lestrade snorted, shaking his head, and went back to watching their Omegas.

“No Betas?” John asked.

Lestrade shrugged, “Sherlock’s here and Mycroft’s beef is with you two. I don’t expect this to go on for too much longer. Look at us: we aren’t even feral. I’ll take first watch?”

Sally and John nodded and climbed into the bed to snuggle their respective Omegas while they slept.

As often happened during furpiles, as the tension dropped the hormones rose and John soon found himself being stroked awake by a gentle finger inside his most intimate area. His eyes fluttered open to meet Apple Blossom’s, who was staring at him in confusion and awe. John glanced over his shoulder at a sleepy looking Sherlock, who slipped a second finger inside John and yawned. How he managed to make even _yawning_ look sexy, John had no idea, but his cock gave an enthusiastic twitch as Sherlock brushed his prostate at the same time. John wriggled into a better position, lifting his hips, and glanced aside to see Mycroft slowly rocking back and forth as he ground down onto a panting Lestrade’s knot. Apple Blossom and the other Sub – Beatrice- were sitting quietly in between them, Abby’s head in Bea’s lap. Sally and Ruth were standing guard. Apparently Ruth was waiting it all out, but John thought he’d heard her mention she was night shift at her job.

Sherlock growled at him to roll over and he did, grasping his legs as Sherlock lifted them for him. They smiled softly at each other, nuzzling and kissing gently, before Sherlock slowly slid inside of John with a contented sigh. It seemed Sherlock was in a gentle mood, and he stretched his long body out across John’s and took up a slow pace. John wrapped his arms and legs around his Dom and sighed happily. He wasn’t fully hard yet, and had no idea if Sherlock would let him get to that point, but it felt _good_ to be held and he was going to enjoy that for what it was worth.

Sherlock, of course, couldn’t manage that slow pace for long. Soon he was thrusting fast and hard, angling his hips to glide against John’s prostate until he was writhing. He needed pressure on his knot to climax; the prostate stimulation wasn’t quite enough this time, but he hadn’t been given permission to touch himself. Part of his mind worried what Apple Blossom would take away from this, but when Sherlock’s hand gripped and pulled his hair as the other gave his bottom a sharp slap the only thing left in his head was _Sherlock_.

“Oh, god, Sher! Please let me come! Please!”

“Tell My you forgive him,” Sherlock growled.

“I forgive you Mycroft! Please let me come!”

“Touch yourself!” Sherlock barked, “squeeze your knot until you come!”

John moaned heatedly and gripped his knot _hard_ while his other hand pumped his cock fast. Two more strokes against his prostate, a tweak to his nipples by Sherlock, and John was spurting hard enough to hit his own face. Sherlock leaned down and licked his come off his face and John tumbled into a second orgasm, groaning as he felt Sherlock fill him as well. Off to his right Lestrade growled and clawed at Mycroft’s back as they both arched in pleasure; Mycroft’s Omega prick shooting into the air without a single touch to set it off.

John glanced at Apple Blossom to see her glancing thoughtfully back and forth between them and smiled softly at her. She giggled and pointed to her face; John mirrored her and fond a rather large smear of come Sherlock had missed. He gave her a sly grin and licked it off, making her laugh again.

“Pig!” Sally teased from the side, so John stuck his tongue out at her.

“I’ve an oral fixation, there’s nothing wrong with that,” John laughed back.

“There is if you don’t start using it on me,” Sherlock growled, dismounting and then assuming John’s –previous position.

“Mmmmm!” John agreed enthusiastically, and buried his face in his Omega’s wetly shimmering cleft.

Sally decided she’d had enough of just watching and joined them on the mat, Ruth quickly dragging a squirming and giggling Bea out from under her head. Ruth pressed Bea’s face into the mattress and started fucking her fast and hard, before pulling her up by her wrists so her sizable breasts bounced for all to see. John looked away, knowing Sherlock hated it when he noticed women, and focused on fingering his Omega open.

_Lucky females don’t have to prep each other…_ _well… unless they do anal._

John was soon buried in his Omega’s tight body and pumping his hips eagerly. Sherlock squirmed until his ankles were on John’s shoulders and he eagerly bent the man in half as he chased his own release once more. Sherlock came first and John pressed his knot inside to enjoy the last few clenches of his orgasm. It nearly drove him over the edge, but not quite, so he ground himself inside eagerly while stroking Sherlock’s cock, pulling the foreskin over the tip so that his lover was a panting groaning mess.

To John’s right Apple Blossom was riding Sally’s cock as though it were a personal mission, her pert breasts and full round behind bouncing and rippling with her enthusiasm. Sally was eagerly touching the lovely sub and moaning out how _beautiful_ how _brilliant_ how utterly _fantastic_ she was. Abby reached behind herself and Sally started swearing like a sailor as the woman fingered her.

John cried out as Sherlock climaxed again and took him with him this time, pulling his orgasm out of him in pounding waves. They collapsed together, glanced aside to grin at Mycroft and Lestrade having done the same, and lazily watched the two female pairs go at it for a bit longer before they collapsed.

“Is it a bit odd not being able to _see_ your Omega come?” Sherlock asked, proving his lack of tact once more. John snorted and Lestrade groaned in embarrassment.

“Is it a bit odd getting jizz all over you every time you or John do?” Sally snarled back.

“Sometimes, but John seems to enjoy it so I try not to be squeamish.”

“You love it, you git,” John laughed.

“I love a long _shower_.” Sherlock snapped.

“Then I suggest we all get one,” Mycroft sighed, slipping off of Greg’s cock and ignoring the resulting mess as he walked across the room to don a pair of thick briefs and a silk kimono, “I’ll show you each to showers as soon as you’re able.”

XXXXXXXXX

A trip downstairs after their romantic shower found Mycroft kneeling on the floor in a pair of silk pajamas playing with the kids. BG was as far away from him as he could get while still playing with the other two boys and Ruth & Bea’s three kids: twin daughters and one son. Mycroft didn’t seem to know what to do to get him to interact and John couldn’t intervene because there were kids down there he wasn’t allowed near yet. Sherlock hurried over and started gently introducing BG to Mycroft, who offered him a cookie despite the fact it was closer to breakfast time. Eventually the lad ended up sitting in Mycroft’s lap, suspicious look firmly in place, and nibbling at the cookie as though he might find it poisoned.

“It still blows my mind when he does that,” John chuckled.

“Does what?” Sherlock asked.

“Narrows his eyes. He looks _just_ like you when he does that.”

“He looks nothing like me,” Sherlock scoffed, making John wince and glance at Mycroft, “He looks like your mother. All that straight brown hair.”

“He does, a bit,” John agreed.

Mycroft chose that moment to start purring and BG sighed and leaned into him, finally comforted by the sound of an Omega purring. Mycroft tipped his head down enough that no one could see his eyes, probably because they were tearing up, but his smile was obvious. He’d finally bonded with BG.

John smiled softly, but then suddenly had a moment of panic. BG wasn’t biologically related to Mycroft, and there was a _reason_ unrelated Omegas never handled other people’s children. John had quite literally _forgot_. While it was true BG smelled like Sherlock due to the bonding process, he still wasn’t his biological son. This could go wrong very quickly, unless Sherlock bonding with him counted? John had no idea.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, apparently catching the scent of distressed Alpha in the air.

“Ah…” John leaned forward and whispered his concern into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed, but then he gave John a calm smile.

“I need to nurse Aiden,” Sherlock stated to the room at large, “and we should really be going. Mycroft, would you give BG to John while I get Aiden fed? I don’t want John walking into that little baby huddle and upsetting someone.”

Mycroft nodded and levered himself to his feet with BG slung over a shoulder. He stepped forward and there was just the barest hesitation before he passed BG on.

“Sherlock… your Beta… would she be willing to surrogate for Gregory and I?” Mycroft asked as Sherlock pressed Aiden to his teat while John packed the kids up.

“I could ask her,” John answered when Sherlock rudely ignored him, “You two still don’t have a Beta? You’ll need one for your next Heat… aren’t you overdue?”

“No I’m… I won’t be having any more Heats,” Mycroft replied in a pained voice.

The room dropped silent and the children looked around in surprise at the sudden change of atmosphere.

“Oh, gods, I’m… I’m so sorry Mycroft, I didn’t realize…”

“It was my decision,” Mycroft explained, “Though the doctors advised it. My health was so poor the last time… I have six viable eggs frozen. If Gregory and I had met sooner…”

John nodded his understanding. Every Omega was born with a limited amount of eggs: some just one and others dozens. From the time they bonded they simply bred until their eggs ran out and then estrupause set in. Until suppressants had been developed some Omegas used up their eggs on unmated heats, which was beyond devastating for the population; hence the harsh laws regarding bonding Omegas young for so long. Keeping them isolated would produce only dry Heats, since the presence of an unrelated Alpha was required for an egg to drop, but that was difficult to do. That was why Sherlock had been so devastated when he had bled after a failed Heat; it meant he’d used up an egg.

“I’ll ask her, but she’ll probably want to meet with you. I’m not even sure she has a uterus; many Betas don’t you know, despite being female.”

“Ours does,” Ruth chimed in, “If you don’t luck out with theirs just give us a ring.”

Mycroft nodded his thanks and the group slowly disbursed with much hugging and bussing of foreheads. Sherlock was still nursing greedy little Aiden as they walked out the door, the babe leaning off of his hip to stick his head in Sherlock’s shirt and gulp down more milk. He was far past the weaning age, but Sherlock was reluctant to stop when he hadn’t reached several developmental milestones yet. John swallowed another nagging worry and determined to sneak the child away from his clingy Mum to see a specialist. If something was wrong ignoring it wouldn’t help, he needed to get Aiden treated sooner rather than later.

[CHAPTER 33](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/66108.html)


	33. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 33

John had to enlist Lestrade’s help to get Aiden to the pediatrician since Sherlock insisted there was simply nothing _wrong_ with his son missing several developmental milestones; of course in the next breath he would insist Aiden still needed to nurse and that he couldn’t leave his bassinet yet. So Lestrade suggested they all go to the gated children’s park one day and headed out.

Mycroft had Rupert by the hand and was walking slowly along while beaming proudly at anyone who glanced his way. Sherlock had Aiden on his hip and BG by the hand. John had taken a sort of front guard while Lestrade brought up the rear. Once the kids started playing on the equipment John walked up and offered to hold Aiden so Sherlock could devote more time to playing with (neurotically following every move of) Baby Greg.

Sherlock handed Aiden over with a relieved look and laughingly said he’d be glad when the cub was mobile. John smiled and nodded, tucking him high up on his shoulder where he happily chewed on his shirt. Sherlock chased after BG, scooping the boy up and helping him onto some monkey bars. John smiled and watched as Sherlock held BG while helping him move across the bars, proudly shouting for Mycroft to look see how well his boy was doing.

John stepped back a few paces. Sherlock looked over, but only to smile before helping BG down and taking his hand. BG led Sherlock to the steps for the slide and the second his back was turned John bolted for the exit. Lestrade stepped hurriedly forward to stop Sherlock if he tried to intervene, but he was well and truly distracted by BG. John made it out of the gated area, showing the guards the matching stamps that proved he hadn’t snatched a child, and hopping into the first cab that would stop for him.

John was actually early to the appointment since he hadn’t thought it would be so easy to slip away from Sherlock, but that gave him little comfort since he’d bolted without diaper bag or toys. He was also suffering horribly as his Sub side insisted he turn right back around, return their child, and beg for forgiveness. Other Alphas wouldn’t _have_ this problem, but then other Alphas weren’t Submissive. Would Sherlock be handling having his son snatched from his sight by his husband better because he was a Dom instead of a Sub? A Sub would curl up and cry for hours- knowing they couldn’t dispute their Dom’s actions- while clutching any remaining children close until their missing one was returned.

John tried to picture Sherlock behaving like that. Nope. Not likely. Lestrade was probably restraining Sherlock while Mycroft consoled BG. The nurse finally called John in and he headed to the pediatricians office where he nervously tapped his foot and clutched Aiden close.

“Mr. Watson-Holmes?” The doctor entered with a chart and a smile, which quickly vanished when he saw how distressed John was.

A sniff of the air proved John was Alpha, despite his decidedly un-Alpha behavior, so the doctor instead looked to the child with some concern.

“If he is that badly off perhaps the A&E…”

“He’s not. I mean. He isn’t well, but he isn’t hurt. He’s three months old and not crawling or speaking. He can roll over, but only just.”

“I see, that is a problem. I take it your Omega isn’t aware you are here?” The doctor asked with a comforting smile.

“By now he is,” John replied with a sigh.

The doctor coaxed John into releasing Aiden, calming him verbally when John stood up and stammered out that he was going to just leave and take Aiden home.

“Mr. Watson, I realize you’re concerned about your… Omega’s… reaction, but if Aiden is that underdeveloped then he really does need to be examined. You did the right thing by bringing him here.”

John released his son, who was squirming and whimpering a bit, and the doctor looked him over with a keen eye. He also gave John a suspicious look. Finally John knew he couldn’t keep it secret and showed his tattoos. The doctor’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“His mum is an Omega Dom,” John explained, “Our dynamics are skewed, which is why I’m acting like a Sub and he’s probably trashing our flat by now.”

“I… see,” The doctor replied, and returned his attention to Aiden.

“Could our dynamics be the problem?”

“Possibly… there’s a reason why Omega Subs mainly care for children. Alpha Doms may loose their tempers when very young children fail to follow orders. They have been known to harm them-“

John started to protest, but the doctor held up a hand for silence and John obeyed automatically simply because his Sub side was so far out.

“-I don’t mean intentionally, though that does happen. Some Doms have lost their tempers and shaken children, more out of frustration than want to harm. It’s tragic, really.”

“Sherlock would never do that. He’s not an Alpha Dom, he’s an Omega Dom. His instincts tell him to care for the children, not harm them. I had to trick him just to bring Aiden here today because he knows doctor’s visits can be painful and scary!”

“I realize that, but the Dom side seeks obedience always. He may have had a lapse in judgment.”

“You… you really think Aiden has Shaken Baby Syndrome?” John asked, his voice cracking a bit.

“It’s a possibility. I’m going to send you over to the hospital and have some x-rays done.”

John nodded mutely, accepting the script, and the doctor called ahead to have them make room for a priority case. John headed over with a heavy heart and a gently cradled baby. They had given him some formula in a bottle so Aiden wouldn’t fuss and a Beta nurse had kindly changed Aiden’s diaper before they’d left.

The x-ray was horrific. Aiden screamed and tried to pull his limbs away as they manipulated his tiny body on the table. They used a piece of clear plastic to press down on his hands and feet to make then stay flat and no pacifier, song, toy, or bottle would consol the terrified child. Finally he was released into John’s arms again, re-dressed, and cuddled until he’d dropped down to miserable hiccups as opposed to terrified wails. The doctor wanted to view the x-rays immediately so John rocked Aiden to sleep while they waited for the results.

“Good news, Dr. Watson, we don’t see any trauma whatsoever. Aiden appears to be the picture of physical health.”

“Thank gods,” John breathed. He hadn’t thought that Sherlock had harmed Aiden, at least not intentionally, but what about Mary or Mrs. Hudson? Accidents could happen and babies were so fragile.

“Now I called your pediatrician and he faxed over another script for you. You can go downstairs and three doors to the right. That’s neurology.”

John groaned and headed off with his sleeping son.

Neurology was much easier. They hooked little electrodes on Aiden’s sleeping head and fifteen minutes later the doctor came in to review the results. Aiden was covered in little white dots, but John wasn’t about to risk waking him by pulling them off. The doctor reviewed the results and once again Aiden was given a clean bill of health.

Then he was sent to get a CT scan. Then a child psychologist sat down and interacted with Aiden while he shook a toy and stared up at John in amusement. Then they sent him to a cardiologist. All proclaimed Aiden fit as a fiddle.

John unlocked the door to 221B and slipped inside, glancing around to see where Sherlock was. Sherlock bounded out of his chair and crossed the room with an outraged growl. John held Aiden at arms length and Sherlock snatched him close before slapping John soundly across the face.

“How _dare_ you?! I thought he’d been _abducted_. I was _terrified_. I’ve never been so afraid in my _life_! You… you… **kneel!** ”

Lestrade had just exited the bathroom and he rushed forward to stop Sherlock from continuing onto a punishment. They screamed at each other for a while, each trying to Dom the other, while Sherlock clutched a screaming Aiden close and refused to relinquish him, even when Mary came upstairs and tried to intervene. John was trying to shout an explanation over the turmoil, but it was completely ignored.

That was when Mycroft stepped in and Sherlock allowed him to take Aiden while he turned on Lestrade with free arms. The fight went physical then, Sherlock easily overpowering Lestrade, but he didn’t calm when Sherlock tried to subdue him. Instead he pushed Sherlock off and the fighting began again. Mycroft put Aiden down in a playpen and waded into the fray. John thought he was going to calm Sherlock, but he just started screaming at him instead. John couldn’t even understand anyone; the noise level was so high.

Finally John had enough and pulled himself up to his feet despite Sherlock’s order.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!!”

All eyes riveted to him in alarm.

“Aiden’s fine, in case any of you actually _care_. The doctors said they couldn’t find anything wrong with him, but he’s still delayed, so we’re back at square one.”

“You…!” Sherlock started.

“No! You listen! I just spent an entire fucking _day_ taking our son from one doctor to another and I’m fucking tired! So I don’t care if you’re pissed. Lestrade told you what I was doing, so don’t even _pretend_ that you thought otherwise! I don’t care if you’re the Dommiest fucking Dom in the world! I am going to bed and you can’t punish me for protecting _our_ son!”

“Dommiest Dom…?” Sherlock echoed, amusement evident in his voice.

“You heard me! And _you_ ,” John turned on Mycroft, “I don’t know why you think your balls are Alpha sized, but I assure you they’re not. If you _ever_ get in between two Dom’s arguing I’ll subdue the fuck out of you! Got that?!”

“I believe so,” Mycroft stated, eyebrow raised.

The room had gone quiet and everyone stared at each other angrily for a moment.

“Good. Now I’m going the fuck to bed,” John snapped.

“Da da!” Aiden shouted from the playpen.

All eyes riveted to the small boy who was _standing_ in his playpen, hands grasping the rail, with a thoroughly pissed of look on his face.

“Da da! Ma ma! Milk!” Aiden shouted, and pointed to Sherlock’s chest.

Sure enough, Sherlock’s milk had dropped and he’d leaked all over his shirt. Sherlock swore, chucking it off, and scooped the child into his arms. He sat down on the sofa and the cub latched on, sucking greedily.

“I told you he was just biding his time,” Sherlock told John with an air of annoyance.

John threw his hands up in defeat and stomped to the bedroom, ignoring Lestrade’s chuckles and Mycroft’s sneer.

\--Please note that I am _not_ saying Dom/me(s) are a danger to children. That was just an Omegaverse thing. However, Shaken Baby Syndrome is very real and very serious. If you’re ever taking care of your/a child and become frustrated it’s better to walk away and let that baby cry until you are calm enough to handle him/her again. It’s just lung exercise, no matter how awful it sounds, and isn’t worth the damage you could inadvertently do.

[CHAPTER 34](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/66714.html)


	34. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 34

One Month After Aiden’s Doctor’s Visit - Two Months after Moran’s Corpse Was Stolen

John was shaking as he hung up the phone. It was another creditor calling wanting to know why their bills weren’t paid. He was putting them off but it wouldn’t be much longer before Sherlock started to notice that something was amiss. Today they’d shut the hot water off; he’d told Sherlock he’d call a repairman after running downstairs and checking the pipes. Mrs. Hudson he had stalled, and pleaded with her not to tell Sherlock. She’d been sympathetic, likely because she’d seen how distressed he was. The phones he’d managed to ask for another month on. The cable was shut off, but he’d been diverting Sherlock enough that he hadn’t noticed. He’d also managed to get on Sherlock’s computers and switch the connection to a neighbor’s signal whom he’d begged the password from; Sherlock was completely unaware that the internet had been shut off two days ago and hopefully wouldn’t find out anytime soon. However, the electric he’d only just managed to pay by forcing their food to stretch, so if in another month Sherlock hadn’t taken a case with enough fee to pay their bills it would become all to obvious that John hadn’t paid them as he usually did. In the mean time he was boiling water for baths and as quickly as he could and hoping Sherlock took a case before he lost his patience and started inspecting why their home was falling apart.

“John! John! There’s still no hot water!” Sherlock shouted.

“I know! Sorry!” John hurried to the bathroom where Sherlock was scowling at the shower, “I’ll boil you water, love, we’ll have a bath together.”

“I want to get clean, not dirtier, why haven’t they fixed the boiler?”

“There was a part not ordered,” John stated firmly, trying to envision it as true, “I’ll boil you water and you can bathe alone, then. I’ll just have to find a way to dirty you up after.”

Sherlock had bought several such lies lately, but only because he was so annoyed- or so distracted by John jumping him for sex every few minutes- that he hadn’t paid attention to John’s tells. He was starting to get irritable again, and rolled his eyes when John flirted with him.

“You’ve been ravenous lately, are you sure you aren’t the one going on heat soon?”

“Maybe if we had a proper session I’d stop trying to accost you for blowjobs in the hall,” John teased, “String me up and beat me properly, Sherlock, and I’ll stop badgering you.”

“You,” Sherlock scolded with a fond smile, “Are insatiable.”

Sherlock stepped forward and kissed John heatedly before giving him an amused look and heading off to see if Mary was available to watch the boys.

John hurried down to 221C and swore when he reached their dungeon. It was freezing and none of the switches worked. He’d forgotten they were paying for 221C as well and had completely ignored those bills. He intercepted Sherlock when he started down the stairs.

“I was thinking,” John smiled, trying to look shy and seductive, “It’s been ages since we made love on our own bed.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed, “No it isn’t.”

“Well, since we’ve had a scene in the bedroom.”

“No. It isn’t,” Sherlock said more firmly, “Is something wrong in the dungeon?”

“I want to try a rape scene,” John blurted, and felt himself flush brilliantly.

It worked. Sherlock was completely shocked and forgot all about the dungeon.

“You… you’ve put that on as a hard stop. Because of…”

“Best not bring it up, yeah? I don’t want to loose my nerve,” John grinned gamely, and tugged Sherlock back towards 221B. He was immovable.

“John… I don’t want to do _anything_ that will remind you…”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John scolded, but was thinking he could work with this. A fight was as much a distraction as a scene was. He’d get him angry enough to punish him and then Sherlock would fall asleep or go for a stroll…

“You’re trying to distract me,” Sherlock stated, “From what? What’s going on?”

“Nothing, honest, I just want to branch out a bit. Things have been a bit dull…”

“Sex with me is _dull?!”_ Sherlock stammered in shock.

“Maybe we should take this upstairs, yeah?” John pointed out, indicating Mrs. Hudson and Mary’s door not far from them.

Sherlock scowled and turned sharply to return to their flat. John followed at a slower pace, trying to think several steps ahead. Sherlock was pacing in their living room, fully agitated and alarmed.

“You’ve never complained before,” Sherlock snapped.

“I’m not so much complaining, as just asking for more, is all,” John stammered, seeing Sherlock this irritated made him want to backpedal fast. The guilt and the lies were piling up so high he was feeling physically ill.

“More? A _rape_ scene? John?” Sherlock stopped and threw his hands up in the air, a bewildered look on his face, “What in the _hell_ is going on?”

“It’s just… a bit… I heard Lestrade and Mycroft talking about some things and we’ve only ever done the soft stuff…”

“We’ve only done the soft stuff because you’re _traumatized,”_ Sherlock pointed out, “because you were _raped_.”

“Well it’s not my fault, don’t blame me!” John stammered, feeling himself close to tears, but it wasn’t due to the current conversation.

Sherlock stepped forward, concern and confusion in his eyes, and wasn’t that just _dreadful_. He was _hurting_ the man he loved, and that sealed it and John was in Sherlock’s arms sobbing on his shoulder.

“I’m calling Dr. Katinski,” Sherlock soothed, guiding John to their couch and petting his hair gently, “He’ll sort you out.”

“No!” John cried out, pulling back in alarm.

_Another bloody unpaid bill!_

“John… Why? You trust him. He’s pack.”

“Lestrade. I want to talk to Lestrade,” John nodded firmly.

Sherlock gave him a suspicious look, but pulled out his cell and dialed Lestrade anyway. A moment later and he hung up the phone and pulled John close to pet his hair again.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you were headed for subdrop,” Sherlock sighed.

_I am, but I can’t, oh, gods, Sherlock! I’m so bloody scared! Please forgive me!_

Lestrade arrived a half hour later looking tired and cranky. John felt even guiltier and his head spun with it. The second both of them saw his eyes glazing he was tugged into Sherlock’s arms from behind and Lestrade was sitting beside him on the couch coaxing him out of subdrop verbally.

_We can’t afford a hospital bill. I can’t! Keep it together, Watson!_

“John, talk to me. What’s happened?” Lestrade asked, nodding in agreement as Sherlock pulled John’s arms behind his back and pinned him to make him feel more secure.

“I… I’m going out of my skull,” John laughed, trying to play it off, “I think I’m channeling Sherlock here.”

“How so, love?” Lestrade asked, petting his hair and cheek gently.

_He’s such a good Dom. Such a great pack Alpha._ John’s sentimental mind wandered. He felt awful for lying to them all.

“John?” Lestrade urged, trying to get him back again, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m going nuts. All I’ve got is housework and kids and housework and kids. I just… I need to get _out_. I thought a scene would help, but then I started a fight with Sherlock and I don’t even know why…”

“Focus, focus, Sherlock’s not mad, are you Sherlock?” Lestrade coaxed.

“Not at all, I’m more confused and alarmed, actually,” Sherlock stated in bewilderment.

“There, see? So what do you think you need, John?” Lestrade asked, “If you want to tell me in private, that’s fine. Sherlock can leave or he can stay. It’s your choice.”

“A case.”

You could hear a pin drop.

“Sorry?” Lestrade and Sherlock both asked.

“I need a case. I need something to bloody _think_ about besides diapers and midnight feedings and dirty dishes,” John elaborated.

“Bloody hell, he is channeling you,” Lestrade blinked, “I know Perfect Matches tend to take on some of each other’s traits, but now I’m worried. You think I’ll start manipulating people and eating crumpets all day?”

“You already eat crumpets all day,” Sherlock snorted.

John grinned a bit, the joking helping him relax.

“Okay, can you settle for a scene tonight and I’ll get you two on a case first thing in the morning?”

“I guess,” John replied, panicking again as he thought about their frozen and unlit dungeon.

“I don’t really think tonight’s the night to try something that pushes the limits, though, John,” Sherlock sighed, “Not when you’re already on edge.”

“But that might help me be _completely_ distracted,” John argued.

“It might also push you into subdrop,” Sherlock reminded.

“What limits are you two thinking of pushing, if you don’t mind my asking?” Lestrade asked, his counsel voice on.

Sherlock waited for John to answer and he laid his head back with a sigh as he realized he was well and truly trapped. Sherlock’s boney shoulder was little comfort.

“I suggested a rape scene,” John sighed.

Lestrade whistled and his eyebrows rose, “Well there’s a good deal of your stress right there.”

“Apparently he got the idea from you and _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock snarled, and John winced but lucked out in his lie this time as Lestrade chuckled in response.

“Well, it can be quite the rush if you do it right, but are you sure you’re ready for that, John?”

_No!_ “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Well, if you’d like some suggestions I know a way to make it less traumatic but just as exciting,” He offered.

John nodded eagerly and Sherlock sighed in frustration, but released John’s arms and waved for Lestrade to continue. Instead he wrapped his arms loosely around John’s waist. It felt nice after all the tension.

“You have a friend – not suggesting me, but I’ll do it if you want – be the attempted rapist and Sherlock comes in and saves you. You get the thrill without the violation or the transferred feelings of guilt and fear. Rough gratitude sex ensues. I won’t lie, though. Doms go a bit nuts over that particular scenario. I knocked a mate of mine out a few weeks ago, poor bloke needed stitches.”

“Mycroft actually allowed some other Dom into his home to pretend to assault him so you could rescue him?” Sherlock asked in disbelief.

“It’s my home, too,” Lestrade pointed out.

“It’s _Mycroft’s_ home,” Sherlock scoffed, “You have a _room_ in it.”

Lestrade cuffed him upside the head and scowled at him. Sherlock scowled back but they didn’t brawl so John counted it settled. In the end Sherlock refused to try Lestrade’s suggestion and the man left after asking again if John was calmer.

“A case first thing tomorrow morning, just don’t be picky!” Lestrade called, heading out the door.

John sighed and Sherlock gave him a gentle squeeze.

“Well, the kids are with Mary. We don’t have to have sex at all; we can just… watch a movie? Or… what do you ‘normal’ people do when you aren’t humping or watching telly?”

John laughed and Sherlock relaxed behind him. They ended up watching John’s favorite movie off of a DVD. Sherlock hated it and fell asleep halfway through, his head on John’s lap. John stroked his curls and tried to stay calm, but the panic was back. He shut off the TV and DVD player to preserve the cost of the electric, but didn’t wake Sherlock. He’d notice they hadn’t finished the film. John checked the clock and decided to sit there until the movie _would_ have been over- another hour and twenty minutes. John sighed, knowing he needed to preserve the bills, and shut off the light beside him, too.

_Because sitting in the dark moping is so good for depression._

XXXXXXXXXXXX

They were sitting in Scotland Yard with a pile of case files around them. BG and Aiden were playing on the floor, tossing a ball back and forth, though Aiden often got distracted in favor of staring at the lights overhead and BG ended up playing with it alone more often than not. John was sitting in a chair beside Sherlock – his leg twitching anxiously – while the man dismissed (or in some cases solved) case after case. Lestrade looked ready to kill him.

“Sherlock, do I need to remind you _again_ that this is for _John_ and not _you_.”

“There’s no way he’d be entertained by any of these ridiculous… Oh, honestly! How did you _not_ solve this one?! It was the _gardener_ ; he’s the only one with the key to the bloody chemical shed! It says so right here!”

“They aren’t mine, you already solved all mine. Blame someone else,” Lestrade stated with a placating gesture.

“I’m hungry, John, get us some takeaway,” Sherlock groused as he pulled another file towards himself.

“Hungry? You? But you never eat when you’re on a case,” John stammered.

“I have since before Aiden was conceived under _your_ instruction _Doctor_ Watson, and I’m not on a _case_.I’m on a bloody _treasure hunt_.”

John took a moment to think, trying hard not to hyperventilate. The bankcard was overdrawn and he had no more cash on him. He’d packed a lunch for them, but when Sherlock wanted takeaway, Sherlock got takeaway.

“Oh, but… it’s just I packed you a lovely lunch.”

Sherlock glanced up to him in confusion, “You packed me a _lovely_ lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Are we going on picnic?” Sherlock asked, garnering a snort from Lestrade.

“Well, no, but I suppose we could spread Aiden’s blanket on the floor and…”

“Are you in a subfrenzy? Are you… You’re lying to… Lestrade?” Sherlock called.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me I’m not going mad. John’s acting off, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, a bit, but he wasn’t well last night, Sherlock remember?” Lestrade tried to sooth.

“I have a better memory than you could ever dream to have,” Sherlock stated, still not taking his eyes off of John’s twitching, sweating face, “so stop saying that. Also he’s been acting off for several days, weeks even. John. I want an explanation for all of this behavior. Now.”

“I’m just not myself lately,” John replied with a nervous smile.

“A _real_ explanation.”

“I haven’t got one,” John’s voice was barely a whisper.

Sherlock waited. John could feel his blood pressure rising. He wanted to be ill just to have something to do with his stomach besides host butterfly galas. He knew Sherlock. The man could be patient when he wanted to. He’d wait John out until he cracked.

“I’d like to be punished,” John stated quietly.

Behind Sherlock, Lestrade looked alarmed and confused.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, face completely blank.

“I can’t say,” John replied quietly.

“How badly do you deserve to be punished?” Sherlock asked.

“The worse you can think of,” John replied not even fighting the tear that dripped down his cheek.

“Shit,” Lestrade whispered, and hurried over to scoop up the kids, “Sherlock, I’m taking them to my office. They’ll be safe there.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on the second tear moving down John’s face.

“Take my card, too, Lestrade, and order us all some takeaway. Order some for yourself while you’re at it.”

John flinched. Lestrade saw it and left with a kid under each arm, no card, and not a word spoken.

Sherlock stared at him and waited. John sweated and fought the urge to confess; it would only make it worse at this point. At least he wasn’t teetering towards subdrop at the moment; his request for punishment had circumvented that. Sherlock knew that and it only made him more inclined to wait John out. Then, suddenly, his resolve seemed to break.

“I can call the bank and find out, but I think you’ll feel better if you tell me.”

John shook his head. He could give Sherlock pieces of it, but he was afraid if he gave him those pieces the rest would come tumbling out, and parts of it he was going to have to take to his grave. Sherlock studied John’s face a moment longer, then picked up the nearby desk phone and hit the button for an outside line. He dialed slowly, his eyes on John’s face waiting for him to break. He couldn’t. He might loose Sherlock’s trust forever because of this, but he would loose far _more_ if he told him what was really going on.

Ten minutes it took Sherlock to find out their entire savings account was gone, the checking overdrawn, and John’s signature had emptied both accounts. Sherlock thanked the teller quite politely and hung up the phone.

“The boiler isn’t broken?” Sherlock queried calmly.

“No.”

“How long before the rest of our utilities are shut off?”

“Cable and internet already are. Electric and phones next month.”

Sherlock stood and walked out of the room leaving John a complete mess behind him. Lestrade came in a few moments later.

“He’s calling clients,” Lestrade informed him, “Trying to get a private case. They pay better, you know. Department only pays a stipend.”

John nodded, staring at a stain on the floor. The Sub in him wanted to scrub it clean. He was about to start a self-punishment cycle… well, in truth he’d been in one for a month, but Sherlock had just thought he’d been embracing his Sub side with extra enthusiasm since Aiden’s doctors appointment. He had no idea something had happened the day after.... Sherlock was going to be horrified he found out John had been cutting as part of his self-punishment. So far he’d managed to keep it hidden, but his feet looked as though he’d put them through a blender.

“You want to talk?” Lestrade offered.

John shook his head. He couldn’t tell anyone. Lestrade shut the door and walked forward, taking Sherlock’s seat.

“He told me he won’t punish you until he knows the details,” Lestrade explained quietly, “He’s going to make you wait, John. Make you confess. You know that you’ll keep burning out if you don’t. You’ve got kids now; you can’t afford to burn out. Just let me know. I don’t have to tell him and as pack Alpha I can punish you if Sherlock won’t. It will at least keep you calm for a bit, until you come to terms with whatever’s going on and are ready to tell Sherlock.”

“I can’t ever tell Sherlock. I can’t ever tell anyone,” John whispered, giving Lestrade a pleading look.

_Just let it go_.

Lestrade blinked, “Shit, John… another Omega? Or a Dom?”

John went back to staring at the spot on the floor. Let them assume. He’d take his secret to the grave.

“Sherlock said you two had a couple hundred thousand pounds saved up from cases, that you were going to put that money away for BG and Aiden- and any other kids you have- to get a proper education. John, what could have prompted you to empty your bank accounts? Can you get it back?”

“No.”

Lestrade sighed and sat back, rubbing his face. He tried Sherlock’s method of staring him down, but he wasn’t nearly as good at it and John simply stared at the stain on the floor. When Lestrade gave up on him and left John bolted for the nearby toilet, grabbed wet paper towels, and knelt down to scrub the floor.

[CHAPTER 35](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/66829.html)


	35. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 35

1 Day After Aiden’s Doctors Appt. – One Month After Moran’s Corpse was Stolen – 1Month _Before_ Sherlock Called the Bank

Since the boys had had such an upsetting day at the park the day before, the whole family went over to Regents Park for another visit. John was trailing along behind while Mycroft and Sherlock debated the merits of dragging three young boys through the nearby zoo. Personally, he didn’t care where they went, though they were already headed towards the zoo despite the ongoing argument. John was just glad to see Sherlock disciplining their stubborn youngest son.

Sherlock had finally stopped coddling Aiden, and while the boy was screaming almost non-stop, he was also getting up and crawling or even standing while holding something – usually Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock had also cut Aiden (and John) off of his teats, which were now sore and leaking, but he stubbornly put on a small bra and stuffed it full of milk pads rather than give in to either of his orally fixated family members. Aiden hated the sippy cup he was being offered and spent all his free time (when he wasn’t screaming) throwing the thing as far as his fat arms could chuck it. John was planning on stopping at a sports store on the way home.

While Sherlock and Mycroft bickered about which child was old enough for ice cream, John leaned over the otter exhibit and smiled down at the creature’s antics. A tug on his arm had him glancing down at a young lad just approaching twelve.

“Well, hello, where are your folks? You oughtn’t to talk to strange Alphas.”

“He told me to tell you not to let Sherlock see, or it’ll be all over,” The still soprano voice of the young man chirped.

John felt himself go cold inside: “Who told you that? Not to let Sherlock see what?”

The lad silently handed him a packet and then bolted away. John started to follow, but he ducked through a piece of broken fence and out of the zoo proper. John glanced back at Sherlock, who was cooing over BG and his ice cream cone. John slipped the packet behind his back and called out that he was going to find a toilet. Sherlock waved a hand at him, utterly focused on the children, as he often was these days. Normally it would have given John a proud, fuzzy feeling, but today he was too anxious to focus on it.

John ducked around a bend and tore open the envelope at the bottom – to preserve evidence – and peered in to see several black and white photos. John pulled them out one at a time, blinking in confusion. Why would someone want him to keep crime scene photos a secret from Sherlock? Then he saw the box. The decorative box used to bury BG’s umbilical cord and placenta. It had his and Sherlock’s initials carved into it, but it was his and Moran’s DNA inside. He flipped back to the corpse; he was terribly decayed from his shallow grave in a moist area, but it was indeed a curled up Moran. The facial structure was familiar, if nothing else. The next pictures were John’s family home, the barn, the table, the section of yard that had been dug up, his parent’s walking about… gods, the threat was clear.

The final bit of ‘evidence’ was simply a 3x6 card with instructions printed on it.

** £200,000 Unmarked Cash By Friday **

** Bellhop of  ** **Appledore Towers, Hampstead, London**

**Tell No One Or You Both Hang**

**C.A.M Devil  
  
**

[CHAPTER 36](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/67218.html)

 


	36. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 36

One Day _After_ Sherlock Called The Bank - One Month After Aiden’s Doctor’s Visit - Two Months after Moran’s Corpse Was Stolen

John had intentionally left a gambling receipt crumpled up in his pocket. He couldn’t even explain the relief he felt when Sherlock found it. He wasn’t prepared for the uncharacteristic understanding that followed, however.

“How could you think you couldn’t come to me about this, John?” Sherlock asked, sitting John down and showing him the receipt he’d found, “Are you forgetting my battle with cocaine? I _understand_ addiction. My gods, I was thinking you were having an affair and paying off a mistress!”

“I could never do that to you, Sherlock. You’re the only person I want to touch me. Ever,” John replied sincerely.

Sherlock sighed, “No more secrets. Promise me.”

John nodded, “I promise, but you will punish me, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, “I suppose I’ll have to, to keep you from harming yourself. Have you already?”

“Yes, for a few weeks now I’ve been cutting my feet up.”

Sherlock wanted to see them and John removed his socks. The man actually paled.

“John… nothing is worth you doing this to yourself. We’ll get you to see Dr. Katinski again, this time about your gambling problem. It will be all right. I want you to come to me if you gamble so much as a penny and as long as you tell me _I’ll_ punish you, but no more of this. It isn’t healthy.”

John nodded and followed Sherlock down into their frigid dungeon. He was placed in a corner on his knees on the cement floor for three hours before being caned with his old walking stick. Then he had to clean out the bathroom of 221C where a pipe had burst due to the heat not being paid. Afterwards Sherlock set him to painting the boys bedroom, since he’d essentially stolen from them. It all helped ease the guilt he was feeling, but not completely. He was still lying to his Dom.

 

[CHAPTER 37](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/67487.html)


	37. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 37

“I got a letter in the post yesterday, John. A new case, apparently. I’m not sure how exciting it will be, but in nature of rebuilding our finances we’ll take it. The writer sounds quite desperate.”

Sherlock was in the baby’s room, changing and dressing the kids, while talking to John through the baby monitor as John made their breakfast downstairs. John nodded despite the fact Sherlock couldn’t see him.

“I’m wondering if I’ll go on heat soon,” Sherlock continued, “I really don’t think I will. An element of safety is needed, and with our relationship in shambles I’m doubting my Omega side feels safe enough to breed again.”

John leaned against the counter, eyes tightly closed, and drew several deep breaths as he tried to stop himself from beating his head against the counter or slamming a hand in a cabinet. He had promised Sherlock he wouldn’t harm himself anymore, but the man was putting his resolve to the test. In the weeks that had followed Sherlock discovering John’s betrayal they had engaged in punishments repeatedly – usually at John’s request – but hadn’t had sex or a scene. John hadn’t felt this broken apart inside since Moran shattered him into a million pieces and left him broken on the stoop of 221B. The difference this time was that _he_ was the one who had failed Sherlock of his own accord. If he’d just gone to Sherlock and trusted his Dom to make it right even if the situation looked impossible… but he hadn’t. He’d tried to fix it on his own and now he had to face the consequences.

John continued making their breakfast, resolving himself to ask Sherlock for another punishment later that day. Or perhaps he’d go to Lestrade; Lestrade had been good about punishing him without question, but Sherlock always wanted a reason. John had ended up making them up out of desperation and it was only harming their relationship more.

_I saw a pretty woman today and thought about flirting with her._

_I threw out some of your mail because I thought the cases looked too dangerous._

_I went to the gambling hall while you and the kids were napping… I broke even._

John couldn’t seem to stop himself. He lied and he lied and he lied and he hated himself more for every untruth that spilled from his lips. Sherlock was right not to trust him, not to feel safe around him; John was falling apart and he didn’t know how to fix the problem. Dr. Katinski had tried to help, but John was lying to him as well so the assistance he was able to provide was minimal.

Sherlock finally made it to the bottom of the stairs- BG was walking them but very slowly – with Aiden on his hip and BG’s hand clasped in his and they all settled into the sitting room to wait for John to serve breakfast. Breakfast and tea were always served in the sitting room, lunch was usually out, and dinner was eaten at the cleared off table with much throwing of food by Aiden and BG. John carried the breakfast tray into the living room and Sherlock took the kids bowls off to sit them on the coffee table. John set the breakfast tray between them on the couch where they could police the kids and keep them from scalding themselves on coffee or snatching up and throwing something made of glass. Sherlock called the kids over and the morning routine of take-two-bites-then-play-then-come-back-for-more started up. John sipped his coffee and ate his toast in silence. He’d made eggs, but now he didn’t feel like eating them. He’d lost a great deal of weight in the last couple of months. He might have felt good about it, but he wasn’t toning up – just dropping stones due to stress and lack of appetite.

“Where are the eggs you made?” Sherlock asked as he munched on his toast. John blinked in surprise. Sherlock _never_ had more than toast and scones for breakfast.

“I left them on the stove, would you like them?”

“Would I be asking for them if I didn’t?”

John got up to fetch them rather than reply, but when he returned with the plate Sherlock ignored it. John finished his toast and coffee and stood to clean up the breakfast dishes.

“ **Sit** ,” Sherlock ordered and John dropped back down to the sofa.

Sherlock gathered up the dishes and put them all back on the tray before removing the untouched eggs and placing the plate on John’s lap.

“ **Eat.** ”

“Sherlock, you can’t order me to eat…”

“I believe I just did.”

John was fighting the compulsion, sure he’d be sick if he ate those eggs that morning, but Sherlock ignored him and stood with the tray instead. He headed for the kitchen and John took his first bite of eggs with a guilty twist to his stomach as he heard Sherlock running the sink. The man was actually _washing up_.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

They arrived at the address from the post a bit after eleven that morning. Aiden was sound asleep in his carrier strapped to John’s chest and BG was bouncing happily up and down while holding onto Sherlock’s arm and occasionally swinging from it. They walked up the way to a rather nice, if small, townhouse and rang at the door.

“Do you see those holes in the front yard? This was recently purchased. A family home; our client must be planning on bonding soon.”

“Yeah, baby can’t already be on the way,” John noted, “No way an Omega wouldn’t have filled this lovely yard up with a swing set.”

A flash of anger went through Sherlock’s eyes and John looked away in shame. They might have had a nice house and a yard if he hadn’t stolen all of Sherlock’s hard earned money; never mind that their plans hadn’t included that option, now it wasn’t even a possibility. It wasn’t even as if he’d solved the cases, just tagged along. John no longer worked, so he wasn’t contributing to the household.

Sherlock hit the bell again and then stepped off the stoop without waiting for an answer. He rounded the corner of the house, peering in the windows. John stood on the step, not sure if he should follow or stay with the kids. Sherlock called for him from the back of the house, so John tugged BG along behind him. He found Sherlock picking the lock, his face furrowed in concentration.

“Something’s not right. His letter specifically said he was so ashamed by the scandal he wasn’t leaving his house…”

“Scandal?”

“He didn’t go into details and didn’t give me a name, just an address that came up as unlisted when I researched it; last owned by Mr. and Mrs. Howell, but they’re both deceased. I thought perhaps he was their kin and the scandal was theirs – which meant leaving out the name was to protect the family - until I saw the postholes in the front yard. Ah! Here we are.”

Sherlock turned the knob and the four of them walked in, John keeping BG quite close behind him as they moved through the silent house. Sherlock was quick to guide them to the upstairs bedroom where they found the house owner.

“Bang! Bang!” BG shouted, pointing to the corpse on the bed with part of his skull missing.

“Oh, very good, Gregory!” Sherlock all but cheered, scooping his son up and planting a kiss on his cheek, “That is a gun wound. He’s got to be an Omega, John, just look how _smart_ he is already!”

John smiled despite himself and the horrid situation in front of him, “Yes, he’s brilliant just like his Mum, would you like me to call this in?”

“Just a minute, I want to look around. Keep the kids from contaminating the scene.”

“While you do, no problem.”

Sherlock smirked at him and then proceeded to search the room in his usual manic fashion. Once he was done he called it in himself, far too excited to get Lestrade there to gloat than he was to give John pointless orders.

Lestrade arrived in short order and Anderson started shouting at Sherlock for contaminating his scene. Sherlock ignored him and stomped over to Lestrade, pointing out the suicide note and a stack of letters.

“Blackmail!” Sherlock shouted over Anderson’s tirade, effectively cutting him off.

John jumped and must have looked horrified, but Sherlock’s back was turned so only Lestrade saw. Lestrade gave him a curious look and John laughed a bit.

“Had too much caffeine today,” John stammered as an excuse.

Sherlock froze mid deduction and turned to give John a frustrated scowl. He knew full well John had barely finished his coffee that morning, and it took at least three cups to make him jittery. He was sick and tired of all the lies, and the ones that made no sense to him seemed to be the ones that upset him the most.

_Shit._

“John, go take the kids and wait outside.”

John scooped up BG, checked to make sure Aiden was still secure (he was awake and fussing a bit for a diaper change) and headed out as quickly as his legs could take him. BG whined about wanting to walk down the stairs by himself, but John ignored him in favor of getting out the door. John cast about for someplace to go, saw a Tesco on the corner a half block down, and headed there with the kids. He used their bathroom to change Aiden while snapping at BG not to play with the toilets. Washed BG’s hands after he _did_ play with the toilets, and hurried back out with two squalling kids who wanted to _do_ something other than be drug about London.

John pulled BG’s tablet out of the diaper bag and handed his mobile to Aiden; both boys dropped quiet and he leaned against the victim’s fence and tried to think up a suitable excuse for Sherlock. He’d caught John in so many lies lately that he highly doubted ‘I was just talking out my arse’ was going to cover it this time. Even the tiniest fib was driving Sherlock mad, and well it should. It wasn’t like John to behave this way and they both knew it. Sherlock was frustrated with him beyond measure and John just wanted to confess and get it over with.

The problem was he had burned the stuff C.A.M. Devil had sent to him, knowing Sherlock would find it no matter where he hid it. He could go back to the building and interrogate the bellhop he’d met up with, but the fellow had seemed genuinely uninvolved. John thought back to the day he’d dropped off the money, racking his mind for clues that he might have missed.

_John approached the posh building and handed his packet to the bellhop, who glanced down at it blankly._

_“I need a name, at least, Sir,” He stated, with barely existent respect for an Alpha. Then he glanced at John’s collar and gave it a confused look. John turned up his jacket to cover it a bit and hoped he hadn’t read the tag._

_“C.A.M. Devil,” John whispered, glancing about anxiously._

_“Oh, you’re one of_ his _. I should have known. Sure. Come on in,” The bellhop swiped a tag and lead him inside, shouting to someone in a tiny office off to the side, “Oi! I’ve got business with the Devil! Watch the doors, yeah?”_

_“No problem!” A woman’s voice shouted back._

_John shuddered; business with the Devil?_

_The bellhop led John around the corner, past several closed doors, and opened one for him, gesturing for him to go inside._

_“Rules are simple: don’t wander off, don’t make a scene, and go straight back the way you came when you’re done,” Then the young Beta departed with a bored look and headed back towards the entrance._

_John stepped inside what looked to be an office of sorts. There was a male Omega, about fifty, sitting behind a desk with a gun in one hand and a huge grin on his face. In fact, that grin seemed almost frozen there, as though a surgeon had stitched it in place out of some macabre attempt to make this villain seem human._

_“Do shut the door, Doctor Watson-Holmes.”_

_John did so and stepped forward carefully. He didn’t want to get shot; then Sherlock would be out £200,000.00 and his husband. Since they had kids Sherlock wouldn’t die right away, but he would sicken quickly and eventually leave their children orphans. Sometimes John envied couples who weren’t Perfect Matches and didn’t have to plan every risk they took to weigh out if it would kill their partner whether they took it or not._

_“I have the money in this package, like you asked in your last letter. Unmarked brown package like it’s going to post. Now what? You shoot me? You know who I am, they’ll never stop hunting you down.”_

_“Oh, Dr. Watson-Holmes, this is just for my protection! I have a great many enemies, so I never go anywhere unarmed.”_

_The man’s smile never faltered through the conversation. In fact his eyes sparkled behind his gold-rimmed glasses and he looked for the entire world as though he were in the midst of a fantastic party, rather than holding a gun on a man and threatening both his physical life and his future life with his husband and children._

_“You’ve done this before.” John stated, not questioning with the obviousness of the situation._

_“Oh, many times. It’s a sort of hobby of mine, you see. Why at the very moment I have at least ten such interactions maturing.”_

_John felt a tendril of pity for those others caught in this snake’s hole, waiting for him to turn around and bite them, but simply placed the package down on the desk._

_“Moran’s body and all the other evidence?”_

_“Oh, I’ll be keeping that. Can’t have you taking the tube back to Baker Street with a_ corpse _now can I? You’d be found out and all your efforts would be for naught!”_

_“You’ve obviously never peeked in our freezer. I’d be utterly unremarkable waltzing in with his body uncovered over my shoulder. I’ll take my chances.”_

_“Such a funny young Alpha, but the answer is still no.”_

_John thought about the gun tucked into his pants, but then thought better of it when observing the man’s unwavering hand. He knew a practiced shot when he saw one. He wouldn’t be able to draw in time to prevent his own death, let alone end this monster’s. He turned to leave instead, hoping for an opportunity on the way out, but the Devil called him back._

_“I never let people leave without opening the package first. You understand, don’t you? You have prior experience with bombs being placed on your person.”_

_John nodded, feeling himself go cold. How had this man known about_ that _when even the police didn’t have the full details? Only Moriarty or Moran could have known, or perhaps some other sharp shooter on the scene, but Sherlock had assured him he had eliminated the entire of Moriarty’s network. Only Moran hiding his name and location so well had avoided an earlier demise._

_John stepped forward and unwrapped the parcel he’d taken such care with earlier. Inside were Sherlock’s life savings – with very little contribution by him – and his guilt was enough to wish the contents a bomb. The Devil glanced over the contents, smirked, and waved a dismissive hand at John. John kept an eye out for an opening, but it never came and he soon found himself back out on the streets with a stomach full of coiling guilt and a mind full of regret._

_Sherlock would never forgive him._

“Colonel Dorking,” Sherlock stated as he appeared beside John and interrupted his recollections.

“A pity. So many military men prefer eating their own guns to facing life outside the military,” John sighed.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “Was that a threat?”

“What? No! Just… an observation. I can relate… not to now, back to before we met when I was so alone. You saved me from all that.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened a moment and a smile graced his lips. For a moment John thought all was well and leaned in for a kiss, but the moment was broken by a shout from Lestrade from the doorstep.

“Be glad I don’t charge you with breaking and entering!”

“In a dead mans house?” Sherlock shouted back, then spun away from John and headed to the main road to hail a cab.

John collected their kids and the accompanying bags and bundles and hurried after Sherlock.

“It wasn’t a suicide due to military inaction, John. The man was still serving, but had just met his Perfect Match in one very lovely Omega by the name of the Honourable Miss Miles, according to all of his correspondence. They were due to be bonded in a proper, old-fashioned bonding ceremony in front of family and friends- right before her next heat is due in two days time. Yesterday an article appeared in the paper cancelling the engagement, but with no mentions as to why. Who cancels an engagement to a Perfect Match? It isn’t possible. They’d crave each other passionately until one of them relented and sought out the other. Colonel Dorking ended his life to prevent her ending up with him when one of them didn’t want the match. Now she’s free to pursue other less-permanent bondings without fear of her own death since they were unbonded when he killed himself.”

“That makes little sense, wouldn’t an open relationship be better than suicide?”

“That’s where the caveat lies, John, she had refused him an open relationship from the start pleading a jealous heart; it’s in one of his letters on his dresser.”

“If all the letters are there, then he can’t have been blackmailed by them.”

“Ah, but the letters from his paramour are _not_ there, are they? I got the indication from his cufflinks that our Colonel Dorking is bisexual. Likely his lover is another Alpha. If the Alpha in question is a male Alpha, and the union illegal, it may be why Miss Miles abhorred it so strongly. If he has continued to seek out this lover and she were provided with evidence as to the fact, then she would have broken off the engagement to avoid the scandal when he was caught out and arrested eventually.”

“Brilliant, as always, Sherlock,” John praised and slipped into the cab with Aiden while Sherlock buckled in BG.

“We should really think about getting a van, John, especially if we’re to have more children. This isn’t the safest way to travel.”

John nodded, and bit his lip on the comment that wanted to come out: _I thought you said you couldn’t trust me enough to have more kids with me?_

“So we’re off to see the Honorable Miss Miles?” John asked instead.

“No, no, that’s old news. This Master Blackmailer will be after someone new and we’ve to act fast to prevent the desolation of another individual. Lestrade has told me they have at least a dozen cases where they suspect a blackmailer – and the _same_ blackmailer – to be the guilty party.”

“So why not bring him to justice?” John asked, feeling the hate, anger, and pain boil up. If they caught him – and he had no doubt it was the same Devil in question – then he would be free to tell Sherlock the truth.

“It’s no easy task. First someone must step forward and present charges – ruining their reputation for life in exchange for what amounts to a few measly years imprisonment for the culprit. Even if the crimes were to be stacked on top each victim has no way of knowing if the means will justify the end results.”

“I see what you’re saying,” John sighed, “So how are we to stop him?” _And without_ our _secret being revealed._

“First we need to find a willing victim to step forward. He prays on those high in society, possibly due to his own hatred of rank, so we need only look through the papers for recently announced celebratory events and drop in on those individuals. Hopefully one of them will take it upon themselves to seek out our help once they’ve got our card in hand.”

John nodded at the good sense and wondered how likely it would be. If this man only prayed on Perfect Matches, targeting the less intelligent Alpha, as the pattern John saw emerging indicated, then the victims were unlikely to take any risk at all. Colonel Dorking had been in a unique position and John found himself envying it… until he glanced down at his babbling son strapped to his chest. Aiden wouldn’t be here if he’d killed himself off before bonding to Sherlock. John pressed a gentle kiss to his son’s hair and petted it gently.

After three days of social calls – presumably to advertise their Detective Agency with the spiffy new cards Sherlock had made up for them- John was sick and tired of posh people in foppish outfits looking down on them and their little family. He was also thoroughly convinced that the entire enterprise had been a failure until he stepped out of a cab in front of Baker Street and found that same young lad from the zoo was standing in front of the sandwich shop. John approached him hesitantly, noting the cold and calculating look in so innocent a face.

“You’ve two options,” The lad stated, and handed John an unmarked envelope. John took it and walked away without trying to follow or stop the boy.

John slipped down to their dungeon and glanced over the contents of the envelope before burning them in the fireplace.

**£200,000 or The Detective Stops his Investigation  
Same location by 5:30P today for the first.  
Baker Street and 6:30P for the second.  
I will prove my seriousness to you by noon today.**

John leaned against the fireplace, and glanced at his watch: it was ten minutes to noon.

“John?” Sherlock called, causing him to jump in surprise.

“Oh! Sherlock, um… hello, I was just…”

“Thinking up another lie to tell me? What will it be this time, John? A secret affair you wish to erroneously confess to, when you know full well I see everywhere you go and everything you do these days? Or are you burning more of my mail? I see the evidence in the fire myself, so I assume it’s the latter. You have some excuse?”

“I love you,” John stated firmly.

“So you say, but actions – as most would say – speak louder than words.”

“You’re my Perfect Match.”

“That guarantees compatibility, not love. I know a great many Perfect Matches who are very good friends and very poor husbands and wives.”

“I only want you. I only ever want you. I…” John closed his eyes, choking on his words, “Please promise me that no matter what happens today you’ll remember I love you?”

“What,” Sherlock asked, stepping forward, “Is going to happen today?”

“I don’t know,” John told him in all honesty, and Sherlock read it from his face.

“It has you frightened nonetheless,” Sherlock decided.

“Yes,” John admitted, then glanced at his watch again and threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck.

They kissed hungrily, too long denied by their bitter fights and Sherlock’s understandable distrust. Sherlock had John pinned against their St. Andrew’s cross in an instant, pulling the baby monitor from it’s clip on his hip and setting it on the floor beside them.

“We have only an hour before they both wake, if we’re lucky,” Sherlock warned.

“You’ve proven quite resourceful in less time, beloved,” John panted, tugging his clothes off.

Sherlock scratched and bit like a wild thing, his own clothes untouched despite John’s pleas to see and touch his body. John was quickly lashed onto the cross and Sherlock brought their favorite ridding crop down across his chest over and again until John was writhing and moaning, sobbing for the pleasure thrumming through his body. His prick was achingly hard; a glance down saw Sherlock adjusting his own in his trousers. Then Sherlock snatched up a blindfold and slipped it over John’s eyes.

“I’m going to throw you into subspace so fast and so _hard_ that you won’t remember your name for _weeks_!” Sherlock growled and John’s knot began to swell just from the promise.

John was babbling and pleading as the crop came down over and again. Then something thin, cold, and slick nudged his entrance. He fought it a moment, fear resurfacing, but Sherlock’s deep voice caressed his ears and he relaxed to the intrusion. Slim metal slipped inside of him and then began to vibrate all the way to his core. John cried out, sword, moaned, gasped, bucked his hips wildly, screamed Sherlock’s name, and hovered on the edge of orgasm. Sherlock ignored him in favor of fucking him with the toy, slowly and torturously. Judging by the feel of Sherlock’s thighs rubbing against his own he still had his trousers on, which was no great shock as denying John the sight and touch of his body had become a kink of Sherlock’s; he loved to make John beg him to take off his clothes. Then he would strip slowly while the needy Alpha watched and salivated over his lover’s flawless physique.

John was floating in a blissful place full of the scent of his Omega, the familiar feel of their dungeon, and the continuing crack of the crop on his body. He was so close to orgasm he knew he’d let loose the second Sherlock’s velvet heat wrapped around him, but he also knew Sherlock was close. He could _smell_ and _hear_ the unbridled desire. John heard the rustle of clothing and felt a hand sliding up and down his cock as Sherlock teased him for a moment. John was sobbing in anticipation, his blindfold soaked with tears, when the room suddenly filled with the scent of Alphas. John heard shouting and struggled against his bonds, unable to reach the emergency clasp that would free him to protect Sherlock from the intruders.

“ _Cinnamon!”_ John shouted, hoping his stench would drive the Alpha’s off. It had absolutely no effect so he yelled it twice more before he heard Lestrade’s voice.

“It’s okay, John, relax. I’m going to get you down. Here, breathe,” Lestrade soothed, his neck pressed to John’s face and he breathed in the scent of his pack Alpha gratefully before the clasps were released and he sagged into his arms.

“Sherlock?”

“They’ve got him. Don’t worry,” Lestrade pulled the blindfold off at the same instant that Sally wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

John was shaking. He’d come down from subspace too fast, his erection had flagged but his need to satisfy his Omega hadn’t been fulfilled, he was thirsty, in pain, confused, and Sherlock was no where in sight. Their dungeon, _their dungeon_ , the most personal and private place a couple could have, was filled with police constables covered in scent masks to ward off John’s stench. Dimmock was just heading down the stairs with a mask also in place. He and Lestrade guided John upstairs with one officer in tow while the rest remained downstairs to process the dungeon.

“What’s going on? Where’s Sherlock? What are all those people doing in our dungeon?” John asked, tugging frantically on Lestrade’s arm as they pressed him down into his own sofa and pulled their masks off.

“Just relax, John,” Lestrade soothed.

“Sherlock,” Dimmock stated with a sigh, “Is in some _very_ escape-proof Irish cuffs and stashed in the back of a police car. He can’t hurt you anymore, John.”

Lestrade gave John’s shoulder a squeeze and John glanced back and forth at them in confusion.

“I _want_ him to hurt me! He’s my sadist!” John stammered.

“John, it’s fine,” Lestrade soothed, “You don’t have to protect him. You’ll be allowed to see him in prison in very _safe_ conditions – where he can’t hurt you - and given custody of the kids. My’s got a good lawyer, you’ll be fine.”

“You aren’t making any sense, what has Sherlock…” Then John’s mind flew to the photos - and recently the letter - he’d burned. The Devil had said he’d prove his seriousness and had apparently done so, “No. You’re wrong. It was me. It was all me, it’s my fault. Sherlock’s completely innocent.”

_Why has he done this? What new horror does he have to hold over my head that allowed him to spill the beans about Moran and still expect to be able to blackmail me?_

“John,” Lestrade dropped into a squat in front of him, “You know we’ve heard all this before. You know we’ve dealt with enough abused Subs to know they always blame themselves and expect it to be better the next time around. Maybe he’s apologized, maybe he’s promised not to hurt you again, but at the end of the day we both know that people like Sherlock _don’t change._ You need to think of yourself and your kids; you don’t want them growing up thinking it’s alright for them to be treated that way? What if he looses it one day and kills you? What about Baby Greg and Aiden?”

Now John was doubly lost. _This isn’t about Moran? Someone thinks Sherlock’s abusing me and has convinced Lestrade_ and _Mycroft of that fact? Enough for Mycroft to help put Sherlock in gaol? Or would he just follow Lestrade’s orders since he’s his Dom?_

“Sherlock’s not abusing me. End of story,” John stated firmly, “We have an S&M relationship, it’s all consensual, and we’ve even got a fully written out contract. You can look it up yourself, Sherlock keeps it on the mantle under the skull.”

Lestrade sighed and pulled out a piece of paper from an evidence bag with a piece of tape at the top as though it had been attached to something.

“We found this on the door. I know you weren’t the one who placed the emergency call – they told me that was a female – but this is your handwriting, John. Please. I’m begging you. Don’t do this to yourself. That conversation we had about rape scenes? Shit, I’m sorry, John.”

John took the note and looked it over in horror. It _was_ his handwriting. The note was a list John had made almost a year ago, comparing and contrasting his tastes with Sherlock’s. They didn’t often match up – John preferred more pain and less domination while Sherlock preferred more domination and less pain. Sherlock felt BDSM was artistic, while John felt it was as straight forward as fucking. Sherlock enjoyed rape scenes, or wanted to at any rate, while John had it written plain as day on the paper that he was utterly terrified of even pretending to be a rape victim.

“I should have realized you were asking for help then, John,” Lestrade continued to apologize, “The idea you’d just suddenly want a rape scene… after what you’ve been through…”

“No. No. This… this was just to help me get my head sorted. I write _everything_ down. I always have. You know that. Sherlock and I haven’t even _done_ a rape scene!”

“The person who called it in today heard you, John,” Dimmock explained gently, “She heard you screaming for help, saw Sherlock drag you down the stairs, and heard you using your safeword, she _told_ us it was cinnamon. That’s how we knew to come in masks.”

“No! I used the safetyword _after_ you got here to chase off the Alphas I thought were attacking my bondmate! There wasn’t a smell until then!”

A few officers had come upstairs and they glanced at each other and shrugged. They’d had the masks on from the door; they wouldn’t have known when the smell started, but it was there now. John saw they had evidence bags full of his and Sherlock’s toys, including the damp blindfold he’d been wearing. He’d been crying out of delight, but how would he explain that to them?

“There’s a fresh mark on the wall heading down to the dungeon,” Anderson explained, “Looks like someone tried to fight back and scratched at the wall.”

“No,” John stated shaking his head, “It must have been there from before. Or someone put it there today.”

No one looked like they believed him; they just gave him pitying looks. John switched tactics and dropped to his knees.

“Please Greg, please,” John begged shamelessly, tugging at his hands when he tried to look away, “Sherlock’s all I have, I love him! Even if he asked me for a rape scene, which he _hasn’t_ , I’d have gone through with it to please him! If I used my safety word, he’d _stop_. I know he would! He’s your friend, too, think about this! You know he would never hurt me.”

“John,” Lestrade sighed, “Sherlock’s the first Dom I’d suspect of being abusive. He’s inconsiderate, selfish, and lacks the Alpha urge to care for their lover. Yes, he’s my friend and I love him, but not enough to let him destroy you – it would only destroy him in the end, too. Mycroft feels the same. He’s always worried about Sherlock’s messed up dynamic…”

“Mine is too! Greg, please! He’s my Dom, my Omega! I need him!”

“It’s not my case,” Lestrade sighed miserably, “Dimmock’s on point, I’m just here as your pack Alpha.”

John turned towards Dimmock, intending to crawl to his feet, but the Alpha threw up his arms in defeat before he even got his hands on the ground.

“Fine! Yes! All circumstantial evidence. Sally, go let Sherlock out of the car and try not to get punched.”

Sally snorted, “Like I’d let the Freak chin _me!”_

Sally gave John a confused look before she left, which only baffled John more, and then they all waited until Hurricane Sherlock came thundering up the stairs.

“What in the name of all things holy and unholy was this bullshit about?!”

Lestrade stood and handed the note to Sherlock despite John’s attempt to grab it.

“That and a 411 call had us thinking you were raping John. Care to explain the scrapes in the wall downstairs?”

“No idea where they came from. They were there when I went down today,” Sherlock cast narrowed eyes on John, “I assumed _he_ put them there, though I doubt we’ll get the reason why. He does nothing but lie of late.”

John felt the color drain from his face and Sherlock waved the note, “If you wanted things to stop between us you only had to say so. You remember my mentioning Perfect Matches are only really perfect companions? That it was perfectly reasonable to seek attention outside of a failing marriage?”

John nodded, tried to speak, but found his mouth utterly dry.

“Consider yourself released of your obligations to me,” Sherlock stated and held out a hand, “Go to whomever you’ve been seeking out in secret and I’ll find my release elsewhere also. The collar, if you please.”

“No,” John’s hand flew to his neck to protect his precious collar, “No, Sherlock, please! This isn’t what you think!”

“It isn’t yet another in a long line of deceitful actions of late? You accused me of being dull in bed not long ago; I suppose my not addressing that brought this on. I’ve heard Subs have ways of subtly punishing their Doms, but _this_!”

Sherlock stepped forward intending on taking the collar by force, but John was scrabbling backwards across the floor. Upstairs one of the kids woke and let out a wail, quickly followed by another. Sherlock was torn, his Omega instincts already heading upstairs to John’s old room to care for the children.

“Get that off of him,” Sherlock hissed to Lestrade, then turned and went upstairs.

“John… come and stay with Mycroft and I,” Lestrade coaxed, “Now, stop that, you’ll choke yourself.”

John was sobbing and shaking his head, attempting to keep his collar by any and all means as Lestrade stepped over to him and gently pried his hands free.

“Listen, I won’t confiscate it, but you have to take it off or it will be worse for you. I’ll tell him I kept it, okay? That I’m not letting him have it because I think he’s being hasty and I don’t want him destroying it. He’ll buy that. When you two work this out, I’ll pretend I gave it back to you.”

John nodded mutely, sobbing too hard to answer verbally. Lestrade unlatched the collar and slipped it off his neck and into John’s hands. John pressed it close to his chest but had nowhere to hide it while naked.

“Let’s get you to your room and dressed,” Lestrade sighed, realizing his predicament, “Then to hospital before you hit subdrop. Then to my place. I’m not abandoning you again like… like I did before.”

John nodded and followed Lestrade into his room. He pulled out a drawer and dressed quickly and quietly, placing his precious collar in his pocket, but Mrs. Hudson stopped them on the way out the door.

“John? A valet was at the door with a card for Sherlock… is everything alright, dear?”

“Bit of a domestic, Mrs. Hudson. They’ll be fine,” Lestrade answered for him.

John snatched the card from Mrs. Hudson’s hands and read it.

**Charles Augustus Milverton,  
Appledore Towers,  
Hampstead.  
Art Dealer.**

Below that was written in pen: Will call at 6:30 – C.A.M.

On the reverse was a small version of “Last Judgement” by Michelangelo Buonarroti.

C.A.M. Devil.

“I can’t go to hospital. I have to help Sherlock with a case,” John’s voice echoed hollowly.

“Don’t be daft, you can’t just…” Lestrade stammered.

“I’m fine,” John stated, and handed the card to Lestrade, “Can you give this to Sherlock? I need to go and take care of something he asked me to do earlier.”

“If you think I’m leaving you alone…” Lestrade started.

“Not your call. Look. You feel bad about handing me over to Moran? Fine. I _begged_ you not to back then. You didn’t trust that I knew what was good for me just because I’m a Sub. Don’t make that mistake now. I _need_ to do this. I’m calm again. Look at me? I’m calm.”

He understood the demonstration of power now. Milverton had somehow been in their home, searched through their things, and was capable of destroying them entirely. The threat wasn’t just gaol time and the loss of their children; he was capable of burning the soul out of them both. John had skipped over subdrop and gone straight to pissed-the-fuck-off.

“Yeah, you are. Strangely calm,” Lestrade replied, “What the hell am I supposed to do with you, John? I half want to believe Sherlock; that you set this all up, because you’ve been nothing but lies lately. Then I want to believe you, because damn it I _do_ want to protect you, because you’re a Sub and your pack. Except that you’ve gone and cried wolf so many times in the last month or so that I don’t know whether to expect a wolf, a bear, a lion, or a fucking pussy cat.”

“I’m hoping for that last one, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“You’re in something, aren’t you. Sherlock suspects you are. Something bad.”

“Good day, Lestrade,” John turned and walked out the door.

He went to the first bank only to find Sherlock had put a £300 limit on withdrawals. He asked the total funds and found it far below what the demands were. John was tempted to hop from bank to bank and pull the money, but he doubted they would fall for it and there wasn’t enough anyway. Only one thing left for it. John headed home and found Sherlock upstairs with both kids. The card was on the kitchen table, but that didn’t mean Sherlock hadn’t seen it and just left it there after. He decided to take it to him anyway. The clock struck six just as his feet touched the landing, he had no idea where the time had gone. Maybe he had been in subdrop for a while and just stumbled around London without recalling it.

“This card came for you,” John stated, holding it out to Sherlock who was busy changing Aiden’s diaper.

Sherlock scowled at it and diverted his attention back to their youngest son. John glanced at BG, who was already dressed and playing contentedly on the floor. So, Sherlock was at least not neglecting his adopted child due to his dispute with John.

“That is the worst man in London, John,” Sherlock growled, “I have faced some fifty murderers, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion which I have for this fellow. And yet I can’t get out of doing business with him – in fact, he is here at my invitation.”

“Why?”

“He is the king of all blackmailers. Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and reputation come into the power of Milverton! With a smiling face and a heart of marble, he will squeeze until he has drained them dry. His method is as follows: He allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay very high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth and position. There are hundreds in this city who turn white at his name. He doesn’t even need the money he tortures from these people; he does it for the pleasure of it. A lady has asked me to intercede with him on her behalf and negotiate a terms she can meet.”

John nodded, unsurprised, but his mind had leapt to his methods. Who, then, had betrayed them?

Sherlock had paused, Aiden on his hip, and was studying John carefully with narrowed eyes. His eyes dropped to John’s bare neck and the Sub clutched at his naked throat automatically.

“John… Moran’s corpse…” Sherlock stated, his eyes widening, “I’d thought it was you, that your deceit started back then, but…”

John felt a surge of both fear and hope and it must have shown on his face because Sherlock’s eyes widened in understanding.

“Oh, gods, John… Milverton? This whole time?”

“Please don’t, Sher,” John whispered, trembling from it all, “He’s threatened again. He’ll go to the police about Moran if you keep investigating him. Same if you let on that you know I’ve been blackmailed. He’s probably listening right now. Let it go. Please.”

“Stupid!” Sherlock exclaimed, thrusting Aiden into his hands, “Stupid! Stupid! How the hell could I have been so blind?”

Sherlock tore down the stairs and John called after him, putting Aiden down on the floor and securing the baby gate before chasing after him as well. He felt like the walls to Baker Street were crumbling around him as the clock struck half past six and Sherlock threw open the door to reveal the Devil himself come to call.

[CHAPTER 38](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/67616.html)


	38. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 38

BG 19 mos, Rupert 10 mos, Aiden 5 mos

Milverton was grinning from ear to ear, just as he’d been when John met him, and now he slipped into the flat with the ease of an eel slipping between two cracks of rock in pursuit of prey. He gave John a look as though he’d never seen him before and gestured to him minutely.

“This is a matter of most delicacy, Mr. Holmes. Can this man be trusted?” Milverton’s hyena grin never left his face despite the content of his words.

Sherlock glanced at John and raised his eyebrow, “No, I think not. Dr. Watson was just going upstairs, weren’t you? Our sitter is busy.”

John didn’t even blink at the lie, he simply headed upstairs to mind the kids with the knowledge that now Sherlock _knew_ and he was prepared to play his part perfectly. In order to do that, there had to be some excuse as to why they weren’t utilizing Mrs. Hudson or Mary to watch the kids. In reality, they were now numbered among those who might have betrayed them, but Milverton could not know that. John slipped upstairs and found that the baby monitor’s light was flashing. He walked over to assertain as to why, when he suddenly heard Milverton’s voice and jumped in surprise. Sherlock had hit the intercom button so John could hear the conversation.

“I trust it the young lady has empowered you to act on her behalf, and to accept such arrangements in hear stead?”

“She has, but I am afraid even £2000 would completely bankrupt her, let alone the £7000 you have requested.”

“Yes, but this is a time of celebration for her, what with a baby about to be born. Surely the young lady can appeal to her relatives who might be uncertain as to what gift to give. I assure you, the letters in my possession would be the perfect present, far more appealing to her than all the rattles and teddy bears in all of London.”

“If she is unable to gather such a sum by the time you’ve stated? What then?”

“Such a pity, truly, such a waste. You see, on my own I would never hurt a fly. I am a businessman, a collector of sorts. It pains me to see such sweet young people forcing my hand, it truly does.”

“I see by your countenance that it does not, but how does punishing Lady Blackwell benefit you? Certainly you can make an exception; the lady’s Omega is in a delicate condition.”

“You assume too much, Mr. Holmes. Making an example out of her would only prove my seriousness to those still considering my generous offers.”

“I shall advise her to confess her shortcomings to her Omega and hope that the young man is forgiving,” Sherlock decided calmly.

Milverton cackled, the sound sending a chill up John’s spine.

“Clearly you are unaware of this particular Sub’s disposition!”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“Do you know the contents of the letters, Mr. Holmes?” Milverton continued, “They are quite charming, really. Quite a lovely read! Of course, if you are unwilling to deal with me than I will simply have to go on my way.”

A rustle followed and then Sherlock called him back.

“More time! The lady needs more time.”

“The baby is due on the 15th.” Milverton stated, as though that were the most obvious cause for his time constraints. Perhaps it was.

“She only requires until the 11th,” Sherlock explained, “To gather her resources and because the date of the 10th that you listed is also her Omega’s baby shower date. She could hardly miss it without causing an uproar.”

“This seems reasonable to me, but I shall expect the entire £7000, Mr. Holmes. It disgusts me how many of these debutants are unwilling to make my demands when it would be well within their means if they would simply turn their diamonds into paste.”

“You’ll have your money, you blackguard,” Sherlock snarled.

Milverton laughed again, then John heard him gather his things and leave the flat with a particular skip in his step. John once more secured the baby gate, checked to make sure Aiden and BG were both dry and amused, then headed downstairs to where Sherlock was stretched out on the couch with his fingertips pressed together.

“The children need feeding,” Sherlock stated plainly.

“I’ll throw something together,” John replied quietly before heading into the kitchen.

He didn’t know where they stood. Sherlock knew, but had he forgiven him? John found his answer as he was cutting up bits of cooked vegetables for BG while Aiden’s porridge cooled. Sherlock’s hands slipped around his waist, one sliding into his pocket to retrieve his collar. Sherlock slipped it back around John’s neck, but didn’t buckle it.

“We must maintain our image that our relationship is failing. I believe Milverton is seeking to destroy me through you, knowing we are a Perfect Match. You must behave as though quite desperate. I’m loath to send you away, but I think it might be for the best.”

“I love you,” John breathed, his hand reaching up to caress his tag.

“And I love you more than I could ever say, John,” Sherlock whispered, nuzzling his ear gently.

John’s throat caught. So rarely were those words spoken out of his strange lover’s mouth, and to hear them after so long estranged made his entire body ache in relief.

“I want you to pack up a bag after you finish feeding the children. Put them to bed and kiss them often, because you’re going to be away for a while. Then come downstairs so we can say our farewells, but we’ll have to be silent about it.”

“Mary?”

“Mrs. Hudson seems most likely since she has been with us the longest, but it may be that some other party is at fault.”

“Not Mrs. Hudson, gods no, it can’t be her.”

“I don’t want to believe it either, John, but perhaps she has some solid reason. The woman has been like a mother to me for years now, I can’t imagine what would inspire her to betray us. She has little else in the world, besides Mary.”

“If Mary is being blackmailed?”

“A possibility I’ve considered.”

“Who is this Lady Blackwell?”

“A father-to-be, as you heard. She made the unfortunate error of having an affair in the early months of her husband’s pregnancy. She saw the error of her ways when he fell down the stairs during her absence and nearly lost the baby. Milverton saw it as his opportunity to spring this trap. He has been known to wait years sitting on a piece of ‘evidence’ before springing it at the most opportune time. Apparently the Omega’s weak condition seemed a good excuse to torment Lady Blackwell.”

“He goes after Alphas, have you noticed?”

“Yes. I did some research on the weasel. Apparently he has a son from an unbonded union. They were a Perfect Match and had set a date to bond in one of those public bonding ceremonies some of the wealthy prefer. His Match wasn’t as high in society as he was, but that hardly matters when a person is a Perfect Match. The day before their union was to take place his future husband was challenged to a duel- of all things- and lost. No one knows what the duel was about or who it was with, save perhaps Milverton, but he was damned to outlive it due to his advanced pregnancy and the fact they weren’t bonded. He survived and birthed the child, but no one has ever seen him, as he’s been homeschooled.”

“I’d feel bad for him if he weren’t so wicked,” John decided, “I can’t even blame madness. Did you see his eyes? Utterly calm.”

“I’ve seen some very mad men with very cool eyes, John, but I tend to agree with you. He does this out of cruelty. Part of me believes the duel was set up – who duels in this day and age?”

“You think he had his own Perfect Match Alpha killed?”

“He had a child from him already, perhaps he hated the man despite their compatibility. Perhaps he had what he wanted and required no more. Perhaps he feared being tied down. My most prevalent thought, however, is that his Alpha was simply the first person he manipulated and he found it addictive after that.”

“That’s sick.”

“As is the snake in question.”

Sherlock popped a bit of carrot into his mouth, pressed a kiss to John’s cheek, and hurried off without another word – taking John’s collar with him. John touched his neck, feeling inexplicably cold without the thin leather band around his throat. He then hurried to follow Sherlock’s instructions.

XXX

John sat on BG’s bed with Aiden in his lap and BG cuddled into his side. He first read a book for Aiden, far simpler and full of bold colors, then read a longer picture book for BG. With each he asked the boys to point things out.

“Where is the ball, Aiden? That’s right! There it is! … BG what letter is that? A? Very good!”

Sherlock’s step creaked at the stairs and he leaned against the doorway with a fond smile on his face before turning and heading back downstairs. It was a gentle reminder to John that he had to put them down to bed eventually. Finishing up the third book he first kissed BG and tucked him in with his favorite doll – Rebecca – snuggled under one arm. Though he had long since been weaned off of dummies, he still occasionally sucked on her plastic arm while he slept. He did so now, his eyes following John with his small brows furrowed, as he sat down in the rocking chair to sooth Aiden to sleep. Five minutes of rocking, a song that ended and continued in a soft hum; once Aiden’s eyes were heavy John slipped the little cub into his crib and turned the light out. Only the nightlight remained, but by it’s faint glow he could still see BG’s eyes open in the dark.

BG usually fell asleep by the time John or Sherlock finished their humming, but even when he didn’t an extra kiss was all that was needed before they left him to wander into the land of nod on his own. He rarely made a fuss at bedtime anymore. Instead, it was John who found himself unable to leave as he was certain his eldest son’s eyes still seemed troubled. So he sat down on the edge of BG’s bed and decided the lad wasn’t too young for a heart to heart with his old man.

“What’s wrong BG?”

“You sad,” The boy whined.

“Shhhh, you’re brother’s sleeping. Soft voices. Yes, love, I’m very sad, but that doesn’t mean you have to be.”

BG considered this for a moment, then sat up and put his arms around John’s neck and kissed his cheek.

“Bettew?”

John couldn’t reply for a moment, he was too choked up, but when he did his voice was steady again.

“Greg, honey, lay down. There’s something I need to tell you.”

BG laid down, recognizing the seriousness when John used his first name instead of his nickname.

“Am I in twouble?”

“No, son, you’re not in trouble, but I’m… I’m going away for a bit. I don’t want to, I never want to leave you, Aiden, and Mummy for long, but I have to go away.”

“Didju fight more?”

“N…no,” John struggled, he hadn’t realized the boys had noticed their fighting, “No, your Mummy and I aren’t going to fight as much anymore, but Mummy… but I…”

BG reached up and touched John’s neck, searching for his collar, and gave his father a wide-eyed, frightened look. He was advanced for his age, but he still didn’t have the words to express this particular fear. Certainly he had heard John and Sherlock talking about divorce on a case or two – the boy was exposed to so much more than he should be at such a young age.

“No this… it’s okay, Greg, it’s all fine. I promise you it is. I love your Mummy very much and he loves me, too. We both love you and Aiden with all our hearts. I’m coming back, and when I do we’re all going on a picnic again. Okay?”

A bright smile, tiny pearly white teeth sparkling in the darkness: “When?”

“Soon. A few days. Maybe longer. I’m… I’m not really sure, but I _will_ be back and I want you to be brave while I’m away. You’re the eldest, you need to take care of Aiden and help your Mummy around the house. You know he hates to clean.”

“No! No clean!”

“Shhh!” John hushed his whinging son, glancing towards the crib to see Aiden turning over and sucking harder at his dummy.

“Shhhh,” BG echoed.

“Ok, leave the place a mess. I’ll fix it when I get back.”

“Fix Mummy?”

“Yeah, I’ll fix things with Mummy, too. Can you be my big boy and take care of your Mum?”

“Yes,” BG nodded eagerly.

“Good, now you get a good night’s sleep, soldier. I want you cheerful for your Mummy in the morning, just in case he’s sad.”

BG rolled onto his side, tucking Rebecca under his chin, and closed his eyes tightly. John pressed another kiss to his temple, fixed the blankets around him, and slipped silently from the room.

[CHAPTER 39](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/67947.html)


	39. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 39

John headed downstairs to find Sherlock sitting at the foot of their bed, his eyebrows lowered in deep contemplation, though he wasn’t in his usual place for thinking. Across his knees, gripped tightly in both hands from either end, was their favorite riding crop. He bent it a moment, and John heard the creak of the leather and shivered. He doubted they’d have a scene, not if their place was being watched, but perhaps Sherlock felt he needed another punishment. The sound of a riding crop echoing through the flat would hardly be commented on so long as it wasn’t accompanied by heavy breathing and moaning.

John packed a bag, taking enough clothes for several days and telling himself that was enough. That had to be enough; they’d never gone longer apart than a few days without feeling ill. Once he had his bag packed and had called Lestrade, asking if he could stay a few nights – diverting him off the topic as to why as quickly as possible – he stepped to the foot of the bed and kneeled in front of Sherlock. Sherlock stared off over his head for several more minutes, then sighed and indicated John should stand.

“I’ve searched our rooms. They aren’t bugged,” Sherlock stated calmly.

“That’s… comforting,” John replied.

“We are, however, going to need to be as quiet as possible.”

“I understand,” John replied, thinking of his gag downstairs. Would it be safe to sneak down and get it? Clearly the dungeon was being watched.

Sherlock was moving, though, and John jumped to attention. Sherlock stripped off his clothes, folding them neatly, and placed them all on the dresser. Then he crawled onto the bed on his knees, facing John, and held the crop out to him. John took the crop, realization dawning, and held it numbly in his hands as Sherlock turned around and placed himself on hands and knees on the bed.

“I’ve got the CD player set to play a recording of me on the violin. Hit it, will you?”

“Sherlock… I don’t think I can do this.”

“You’ve Dom’d others before, surely that included punishments?”

“Yes, but it was unsatisfying for both of us, and besides, I don’t _want_ to punish you!”

Sherlock sighed and turned around again, sitting himself on the bed.

“John, I’m supposed to be your Dom. I’m also supposed to be the most observant man in the world. I failed you and myself this past month and three quarters.”

“Sherlock…”

“I _need_ this, John. Not the way you usually do, but I assure you I’ll eventually hit topdrop without it. I’d go to Lestrade the way I have in the past, but frankly I don’t know if he can be trusted, either.” 

John nodded his acceptance, hit play on the CD player, and watched as Sherlock put himself back on hands and knees.

“How many do you deserve?” John asked, making his voice hard and cold, the way he’d been when he had Dom’d others.

Sherlock’s reaction was instant, and yet subtle. He didn’t move, but his entire body stiffened and took on an air of revulsion.

“ _Just_ the punishment will do, thank you.”

“Sorry… How many do you _need_ , love?” John asked in his normal voice.

“Twenty, ten for each offense.”

John shuddered. While he’d most certainly love to be on the receiving end of a (non-punishment) whipping with the crop, someone who wasn’t used to this sort of thing would be in severe pain after 20 strokes. He wanted to offer Sherlock a gag, but if he responded so unpleasantly to a change in tone of voice, he doubted that he’d ever get a gag on him. Instead he warned him to brace himself and brought the crop down for the first strike. He didn’t go easy on Sherlock, the Dom wouldn’t appreciate it, but he also made sure not to strike the same spot twice. He did, however, pause after the tenth strike to stroke the man’s flesh soothingly and check for injuries. None of his hits had broken the skin, though several were already swelling into raised welts. Sherlock hadn’t made a sound, though his face was red from the pain, and John’s heart swelled with love for the brilliant detective who was trying so hard to make things right between them. John cracked out the next ten strikes as quickly as possible while still avoiding already struck areas. Sherlock gasped at each of the last five strikes, but did not scream even then. John sat on the bed, stroking his hand across Sherlock’s buttock and thighs, admiring the beautiful white skin around the red stripes and wishing he hadn’t been the one to give them to his lover.

“Do you want something for them?”

“What is there?” Sherlock asked, “You never have me put anything on them.”

“I _enjoy_ feeling them for days after, so I don’t take anything. I can give you a paracetamol, but that’s about it. Sorry.”

“That will do.”

John fetched Sherlock a pain killer and a glass of water. He was standing in front of the closet mirror when John came in, frowning at the stripes.

“Too hard?” John worried.

“Not at all, I’m just always amazed that you _take pleasure_ in this sort of thing.”

“Submissive Masochist,” John smiled.

“Mmmm.”

“I suppose… I suppose I should go then?” John asked hesitantly.

Sherlock could be very reticent about showing affection at times, so John wasn’t sure how he would feel about a goodbye kiss- or a bit more than that- especially now he was in pain. However, that was all answered by the look of longing and regret on his face as he turned towards him once more. Without thinking they had both crossed to each other and were kissing passionately as Sherlock tugged off John’s clothes. John’s legs hit the bed and he collapsed backwards onto it; they both winced as it gave a dreadfully loud creak.

“Quietly and slowly,” Sherlock advised, easing himself onto John’s hips.

“I don’t care how slowly you go, this isn’t going to take long,” John panted.

They both glanced down at his already leaking erection. His knot was half swollen already and Sherlock swallowed a moan at the sight. The detective grasped John’s cock and slid himself down on it without stretching himself first. John’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, he gasped for air and clutched at the blankets as he tried to hold himself back. Sherlock had never just hopped on unprepared before, and his hiss of pain would have bothered John had it not been for the incomparable _bliss_ of feeling that velvet heat slide down his long, throbbing cock. Once sheathed Sherlock paused to catch his breath.

The Omega wasn’t mucking about; he slid up and down twice more as his body adjusted and then tried to take the knot. Unfortunately, that required more of a thrust and they weren’t capable of it while moving slowly. John had to grasp Sherlock’s hips and he pushed slowly up while Sherlock pressed stubbornly down _and_ tried to relax his muscles until with a gratifying _pop_ the knot slid inside. Both of them muffled their groans of pleasure and stilled as they panted through the utter bliss of the feeling of being knotted together.

“So full,” Sherlock whispered, his brow dripping with sweat.

“So tight,” John replied, and stopped himself from gripping Sherlock’s abused arse.

Sherlock saw his longing motions and settled it for him by pinning John’s hands above his head. John thought he might have actually _felt_ his pupils dilate as the feeling of safety and security from being pinned mixed with the pleasure of being inside his Omega. Sherlock gripped his wrists painfully and he gasped, hips twitching involuntarily.

“Sherlock… please… oh gods, I need to come!” John whispered.

Sherlock rolled his hips and gasped as his own orgasm took him by surprise, suddenly clenching down on John’s knot hard enough to bring him over the edge. John’s mouth open in a silent scream as he filled his lover’s body. He couldn’t breathe. His vision went white. By the time he took in a gasping breath once more Sherlock was stroking his own cock fast, his face slack with pleasure as he sought out a second release. John joined his slow rolling movements, and soon Sherlock was arching his back and panting out another climax.

“OhgodsohgodsfuckJohnJohnJohn!” Sherlock whispered, his expression frantic.

John knew that look; Sherlock was hovering on the edge of yet another orgasm and this one was _urgent_. John knocked his hand aside so he could stroke Sherlock’s cock himself while fondling his bollocks with his free hand. The reaction was instantaneous for Sherlock and John watched the relief and pleasure flash across his face as he came again. Sherlock returned the favor by reaching behind and hefting John’s heavy balls into both hands and massaging them before gently pressing them up towards John’s body and reaching below to press against his perenium. The stimulation of his prostate, bollocks, and knot was too much for John and with an embarrassing squeak he flooded Sherlock’s body once more.

John went limp, exhausted and relieved, and Sherlock curled himself over him to press close as their bodies softly twitched and throbbed in aftershocks of pleasure. John could feel tears pricking his eyes and was once more disgusted with himself. He had become a weepy mess since leaving the army and it never ceased to horrify him. That all ended, however, when he felt a tickle on his chest and touched it to find moisture there. Sherlock let out a silent, shivering sob, and John wrapped his arms tightly around his Dom.

“I was so sure you had finally stopped tolerating me,” Sherlock whispered, voicing his insecurities into the silent room, “So certain you were lying to push me further away because you couldn’t stand my company anymore. I was so convinced… John…”

“I love you, Sherlock, even the parts of you that drive me barmy. You’re my whole world- you and the kids- I would never do anything to intentionally push you away.”

“I thought you were only staying _because_ of the kids, that if it hadn’t been for them and us being a Perfect Match…”

“No, Sherlock. Never. You brilliant, mad, beautiful, idiot.”

“I don’t know how to make you happy,” Sherlock sobbed softly.

John tugged Sherlock out of the curl he’d put himself in and kissed his tears away. He lathed his tongue over their bonding mark, but Sherlock pulled away before John could suckle on it.

“We can’t, love…”

John keened out loud, instinctively pleading for the chance to reconnect with his Omega on a chemical level, but Sherlock shook his head gently.

“I want to do it, too, but we can’t. It would be noticeable.”

John sighed and nodded his understanding. Sherlock pressed another kiss to his lips and laid his head on his shoulder. John breathed in the scent of his precious Omega and relaxed as much as he could with the knowledge that he’d have to clean up and leave the moment his knot un-swelled.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

John dropped his bag off in the ridiculously large spare room that Mycroft showed him to before heading back downstairs with the Omega Sub guiding the way through the maze of a house. They ended up in a cozy sitting room, baby monitor buzzing in the corner, while Lestrade sat comfortably nearby sipping whisky from a glass and watching the evening news. Mycroft offered John a choice of tea or liquor, but he declined both.

“Don’t you get enough of that at work?” John teased lightly as he dropped into a free chair.

Lestrade laughed, “It’s important I keep up with what the media’s saying.”

“It’s all he watches besides sports,” Mycroft sighed, “He actually TiVo’s them both.”

John laughed and they both gave him a worried look: “What?”

“You’re bunking with us, and that can’t be good, John,” Lestrade worried, “Yet you seem completely at ease…”

_Oops. Well, Sherlock did say to keep up the odd lying just in case one of them is in on it. Really, Mycroft’s my first suspect. The bastard fed info to Moriarty about Sherlock for his own purposes; I wouldn’t put it past him to do the same with Milverton._

“Oh, well,” John shifted a bit, “It was my idea to leave anyway. It’s for the best, really.”

Mycroft looked surprised and glanced over at Lestrade.

“You said on the phone he’d kicked you out,” Lestrade stated, a concerned look on his face.

“Oh, yeah. He did. Ummmm, it was a mutual decision?”

Lestrade scowled and Mycroft looked confused.

“Is this what you mentioned?” Mycroft asked Lestrade, “That he lies about mundane things regularly?”

“Yeah, this is what I meant,” Lestrade sighed, “John, really, what is this all about? Is it some sort of pride-saving thing? Trying to look tough? I notice half the stuff you lie about is regarding your health or nerves, which is another reason I jumped on the ‘Sherlock must be abusing him’ boat. Just… level with us, John.”

John sighed and fussed with his hands, then decided on diversion: “Can I have that drink?”

Mycroft nodded and headed towards the wet bar, asking him what he wanted.

“G&T, please,” John replied.

“Very well,” Mycroft replied, but Lestrade stopped him from mixing it.

“John doesn’t like Gin and Tonic, that’s Sherlock’s drink,” Lestrade sighed, rubbing at his face in frustration.

“I’m sorry, Greg, Mycroft, I really am,” John insisted, which was very much a truth.

“It seems almost a compulsion,” Mycroft mused from the bar while he fetched John the beer Lestrade informed him he liked, “You would ask for something you don’t like, and then apologize for lying about it?”

“A bit, yeah. Now you know why Sherlock’s fed up with me. Thanks,” John nodded, accepting the beer and taking a swig, “Dr. Katinski seems to think it’s related to my PTSD, that maybe there’s something I haven’t addressed and it’s becoming worse to handle so I’m developing new symptoms.”

“What sort of symptoms did you have from the start?” Lestrade asked, “I remember the limp and the shaking, but I though Sherlock cured you of all that.”

“Yeah, but I also had nightmares… have nightmares,” John corrected, “Of course, for a while I was blind in one eye.”

Lestrade blinked and then sighed again, “That last bit a lie?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“You admit it when you are caught out, though. Interesting,” Mycroft mused, his eyebrow raising as he studied John like a bug on a wall.

“Yeah, I guess,” John shifted uncomfortably. Mycroft would be his biggest challenge; even Sherlock admitted the man was cleverer than he was.

“Is it even worth it,” Mycroft asked, “For me to ask if Sherlock were abusing you? I have always feared he would take after our father; they have the same disposition, the same odd moods.”

John looked to Mycroft, prepared to spit out another lie, and immediately stomped that thought down. He’d never seen Mycroft look vulnerable outside of a hospital bed, but despite his cavalier tone he was clearly quite distraught.

“No. No, I swear on my children’s heads he’s never abused me. Annoyed, frustrated, pissed off, occasionally ignored, and driven mad, but never abused.”

Mycroft studied him quietly for a moment, his face as blank a mask as ever Sherlock wore his, but then seemed to accept his answer and went back to the sherry he was sipping. For a time they all sat in silence, Mycroft and Lestrade not wanting to hear more lies pour from John’s mouth, and not talking to each other due to his presence.

“I think I’ll turn in,” John stated, then headed for the doors.

“I’ll show you to your room, then,” Lestrade stated, cutting off Mycroft from rising.

“Oh, it’s fine. I can find it again. Army had to teach me something,” John chuckled, “Recon, you know?”

“No, I think I’ll walk you anyway. I want a word in private.”

John swallowed a bit: private from Mycroft? However, the Sub didn’t look bothered by the statement and simply relaxed further into his chair and took another sip of Sherry.

Lestrade followed John back to the room they’d lent him and said not a word until John was standing awkwardly in the room waiting for him to speak.

“Go ahead and get dressed for bed,” Lestrade ordered, making John think or a moment that the man might have just been checking to see if he had really known the way, “I’ll be right back.”

John changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth in the ensuite. He’d actually forgotten Lestrade had mentioned returning until he heard the knock on the door. He welcomed him back in and Lestrade gestured to the bed. John nervously sat on it while Lestrade stood beside it. He was practically radiating dominance, and it was then that John noticed he’d changed into his own nightclothes as well.

“Come to tuck me in?” John quipped, hoping Lestrade wasn’t thinking of taking up the old tradition of pack Alpha’s using pack Subs for their own satisfaction. It was outdated, but it was still employed in some circles. In fact, courts wouldn’t consider a Sub as cheating if it had been with the pack Alpha.

“Sort of,” Lestrade stated, and pulled the covers back a bit.

John took the hint and nervously climbed beneath the covers, reaching down to pull them up but Lestrade beat him to it and pressed them around his waist before sitting down on top of them. He leaned over then, so his face was close to John’s and his arm pressed on the blankets on his opposite side. The blankets were now pulled tight across his thighs. Lestrade’s breath smelled like mint.

“John, I need you to be honest with me, and I’ll ask you as many times as I have to until I’m sure you are. How close are you to subdrop?”

“I’m not at all. I know I’m going through shit, but I’m getting better at not dropping. Sherlock punished me before I left Baker Street, so I’m steady.”

“Was any of that a lie?”

“Just… the punishment part.”

“Do you need to be punished?”

“No. Being tossed out feels enough like one,” John replied dryly.

“Was that a lie?”

“No. I’m… I don’t feel guilty right now. I feel relieved. I know that doesn’t make sense, but it’s true.”

“Was any of that a lie?”

“No.”

“Do you need a scene?”

John’s eyes widened, this was _exactly_ what he’d worried about.

“I don’t want to be unfaithful to Sherlock.”

“It needn’t be sexual. Answer my question: Do you _need_ a scene?”

John thought on that. The sex with Sherlock had been fantastic – physically satisfying – but he was mentally unfulfilled. What he _needed_ was his Dom to tie him up, beat him for hours, and then hold him until they fell asleep in each other’s arms… which wasn’t actually sexual, now that he thought on it.

“I know you’d rather it was Sherlock,” Lestrade stated, giving John a start by having read him so well, “But you can’t ignore your own needs, and I know you two have been on the outs for a while; he mentioned that time we interrupted was the first in weeks.”

John nodded, letting his frustration and longing show through. Subs _needed_ to submit. There was more than one way to do that, of course, and there were many Subs who weren’t masochists, who got into subspace by serving their Doms and being beautifully obedient. John was _not_ one of those Subs; John needed physical pain to get the endorphins he craved. Otherwise he felt incomplete and unsatisfied; taking care of the house, Sherlock, and the kids didn’t give him relief. He had managed it for years before bonding with Sherlock, mostly by sparring with his army buddies. If he got an erection, it was just looked on as an involuntary one due to the ‘challenge’ issued when two Alphas mock-fought. At worse, they’d think he was gay.

“I… I’ve never… I’ve never done one… I’ve never submitted – _properly_ submitted - to anyone besides Sherlock and… _him_.”

Lestrade backed off immediately, leaning away from him. He would have stood but John grasped his arm, still unsure about what he wanted or needed. He wished he could just ask Sherlock, but he couldn’t call him without raising Lestrade’s suspicion and this wasn’t something he was comfortable texting him.

“What if we do something you and Sherlock have never done before?” Lestrade offered. John was grateful he left the ‘something Moran never did to you’ implied.

John thought on that and his mind flashed to the fantastic sex he and Sherlock had just had. The way he’d been unable to breathe out of sheer pleasure…

“Could you… could you choke me? Is that OK?”

Lestrade nodded, “Are you comfortable with being choked?”

“I’ve never done it before, at least never had it done _to_ me. I’ve done it to a few Subs back when I tried dating them.”

“Was any of that a lie?”

“No. All true. Sherlock’s pulled on my collar…” John winced, then took a deep breath and continued, “He’s pulled on it a bit, but never enough to do more than make me gasp.”

“Ok, well you know how it works, then,” Lestrade stated, and dug through the bedside drawer for something for John to hold, “Ah, here we go. Hold this. Drop it if you need me to stop.”

John took the battery-powered alarm clock in one hand and Lestrade used a tie he’d had in his pocket to bind that wrist above his head. John took a few deep breaths and then relaxed back against the headboard. Lestrade straddled John’s thighs, putting pressure on them and renewing the feeling of being pinned, and then wrapped both hands firmly around John’s throat.

John had a moment of panic as Lestrade touched his neck, his hand compulsively twitched around the clock, then Lestrade squeezed and his air was firmly cut off. John struggled instinctively, his free hand coming up to press against Lestrade’s face and try to push him away. After a few seconds of this, his reflexes eased off and his free hand dropped down onto the bedspread. John wished he could see a clock so he knew how many seconds passed before spots started appearing in front of his eyes. Almost immediately Lestrade loosened, but did not remove, his grip and John took a gasp in and out before his hands tightened once more. John was surprised to feel he was erect when Lestrade shifted a bit on the bed, though he wasn’t surprised when he realized it was Lestrade’s own turgid cock that had brushed his. He heard the man gasp, but then lean away from John purposely. Again John thrashed, more frantically this time, but then went limp. His vision went white after only a few seconds and he was left twitching feebly as a light feeling washed through him. His ears started ringing and he was vaguely aware that he was breathing again, but just as his vision cleared his air was cut off once more and John’s his vision once more fizzled out in pinwheels of white light.

John had no recollection of Lestrade releasing him completely, though he was sure he hadn’t blacked out. One moment he was sitting and the next he was in the recovery position with his arm untied, his hand empty, and thick fingers caressing his hair and rubbing his back. It was so comforting, so utterly soothing, that he was drifting off to sleep before he’d even dropped out of subspace. Lestrade cruelly woke him again, and John whined piteously.

“I’m sorry, John, I know you want to sleep, and you can soon, but I need to check that you’re okay first. You did beautifully, John, you were perfect and very fetching with your face purple from my grip.”

John smiled. He’d pleased a Dom. It might not be _his_ Dom, but it was _a_ Dom, and his pack Alpha at that. So much relief flooded his system, an absolute tidal wave of dopamine and serotonin that it left him feeling both high and lethargic. He wriggled a bit on the bed, arching into Lestrade’s petting hand and giggling at the thought anything could be wrong.

“How’s your throat?” Lestrade chuckled, the warm smile on his face showing how amusing he felt the Sub’s actions were.

John frowned a moment, confused by the question, then recalled he’d hit subspace by being strangled. He swallowed experimentally and found himself a bit sore, but not in real pain.

“Fine,” He replied, his voice a bit scratchy.

“Is that a lie?”

“No, m’great. _Thank_ you,” John sighed blissfully.

Lestrade chuckled again and pressed a kiss to John’s temple. He rose to leave but John called him back.

“Can you stay till I fall asleep? Your smell is comforting.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Lestrade sat back down on the edge of the bed and John sighed as his hand resumed its gentle rubbing on his upper back.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

For the next few days Sherlock would drop BG and Aiden off with John, hold his hand for a moment with a distant look in his eyes (partly for show and partly to keep their bond from straining them) and then head off to work cases. Mycroft and Lestrade never urged them to reconcile; in fact Mycroft was taking shameless advantage of John’s presence and using him as a baby sitter for Rupert. John was just thrilled he was allowed to go near the boy at last. Then on the third day he got an odd text message from Sherlock.

**I’m going to say something horrible today, but it won’t be true. Brace yourself and respond accordingly. I’ll know you don’t mean it and won’t be upset. - SH**

**Undertstood. – JW**

John took a deep breath and headed downstairs to greet the boys and Sherlock. Rupert was already hanging off of his arm, but he left the lad with his Mum while greeting BG and Aiden. BG had taken to crying almost hysterically when dropped off with John and both he and Sherlock were worried that this would cause lasting damage.

“You wer thewe fow bweakfasss!” BG bawled, and John clutched him tightly and rocked him gently from where kneeled on the floor with his oldest son in his lap.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for breakfast again, Greg. I’ll try to come home soon,” John soothed.

“When?!” He wailed.

“I… I don’t know, soon,” John glanced up at Sherlock and did a double take as he realized he was dressed in a _tux_.

He stood with BG draped across his shoulder, rubbing the lads back as he slowly calmed down, though he had yet to release his death grip on John’s neck. Aiden was hovering between John and Sherlock, clearly still confused by the sudden change in his routine, but finally decided Rupert was more interesting then either adults and headed over to him instead.

“You look dapper,” John teased Sherlock, letting the strain show through his smile, “Going to an opera?”

“I have a date tonight,” Sherlock explained.

John’s stomach plummeted before he remembered Sherlock’s earlier text. At least he required no acting as he made a horrified, strangled noise.

“Sherlock…” Lestrade started, then stopped. He could hardly stop Sherlock from _dating_ outside his marriage if he wanted to. He was the Dom and he’d already announced his intention to go poly.

Mycroft wasn’t nearly as restrained.

“When are you going to come to your senses and take John back home? While I appreciate the live in nanny, this is hardly conducive to a healthy relationship; even a polygamous one.”

“Mind your own business, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.

“This _is_ my business! Not a few months ago you were willing to end _our_ relationship in favor of supporting John; now you dismiss him and look for companionship elsewhere?”

“No fight! No fight!” BG wailed, clapping his hands over his ears.

Mycroft, Sherlock, and John all hurried to comfort the child, but he was inconsolable. John finally cast an angry glare at Sherlock and Mycroft and carried him back to his own room to snuggle him on the bed and give the poor lad a moment to refocus.

“Your Mummy doesn’t mean it,” John insisted, “He’s just being silly. Remember when he dressed up as a cobbler to catch a murderer going after women with fancy shoes?”

“Yeah,” BG laughed a bit.

“Well, this is like that. Mummy is just dressing up and _acting_ mad at me. Once he’s caught the bad guy then I’ll come home and we’ll all be happy again.”

“Pwomise?”

“Promise.”

John knew he shouldn’t have told BG, but at the same time he was deeply worried for the child’s mental health. Aiden was still too young to understand more than that people around him were tense, but poor BG was convinced his family was falling apart and it broke his tiny heart. Once his son was calmed he took him to Rupert’s playroom where he and Aiden were already playing together. He spent half of the day forcing them to share toys, stopping them from hitting each other, playing ‘tickle attack’ and ‘hide and go seek’, and stuffing their bellies full of food.

The afternoon post came and the housekeeper brought a letter up to John, the Beta had it sitting on a silver tray with a lace doily decorating it. Unbelievable. John held back his laughter at the pointless show of wealth and glanced at the envelope. His stomach clenched in anger at the crisp handwriting. In the upper left hand corner, where the return address should be, were three simple letters.

C.A.M.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

John had left the kids with Mycroft after practically storming the Diogenes club. He’d lied like a pro, stating Sherlock had run out on his date for a case and then called him to accompany him to the scene. Mycroft hadn’t looked like he’d bought it, but he’d calmly taken custody of all three children and set them to playing on his office floor.

Once John was shown into the same office in Appledore Towers- by a different bellhop- he stood angrily in front of Milverton and did his best not to fly off the handle and pummel the man.

“What do you want? You’ve got everything I have of value besides my kids, and I’ll kill you before I let you have them. My relationships in shambles, we’re flat broke, our kids are going to need therapy – what the _hell_ do you want now?!”

“I merely brought you here to congratulate you on deterring Sherlock Holmes from pursuing the case, that’s all.”

“Yes, well, I suppose him getting a new romantic life was a pretty good distraction from you!”

“Oh? Is the good detective dating again?” Milverton sounded so false it was nauseating.

“Yes, you bastard, as if you didn’t know!”

Milverton laughed outright and John fumed helplessly, watching the gun in the Devil’s hand remain perfectly steady the entire time. Instead of waiting for the monster to continue to goad him, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. He ignored the shout to return and headed back for the entrance before deciding snooping around would be a brilliant idea.

John darted into the next room he saw just before Milverton stepped out of his office. He listened at the door as the man passed and then started poking around what turned out to be a billiard room. Nothing interesting, unless you collected busts of Athena, until John looked out the window and realized Appledore Towers had a courtyard in the center. Then John cried out in pain and leaned against the billiard table as his legs threatened to give out.

The garden was surrounded on three sides by the towers, and John was standing in the right arm of the ‘U’ formed therein. In the center was a lovely little picnic area complete with a swing dangling from a tree that the towers must have been built around. Sherlock was on a blanket in the very center of the garden with a young woman who was laughing and leaning into his side. As John watched, Sherlock leaned forward and captured her lips in a sweet kiss. John’s heart ached and pulled, but he forced himself to focus. This was for the case. It had to be. Sherlock would never do him like this.

_Focus, John. Observe._

Sherlock was clearly in disguise, but John noticed that second rather than first; he could only blame this on the bond and how he could recognize Sherlock from his little finger alone. Sherlock had light colored muttonchops and a moustache; he was dressed in worker’s clothes as though he’d come to fix the sink. In fact, a glance to the side showed John he had brought a toolbox as well. He wore a wig that turned his luxurious dark curls into straw-like blonde locks. His hands were dirty and his boots were filthy. It wasn’t real.

Taking a deep breath, John turned to leave the room and resume his search elsewhere, but a large man opened it before he reached it. John quickly found himself escorted out of the building, laughter in his wake as he was tossed bodily onto the pavement. John scowled after the bulky Alpha before picking himself up and dusting himself off. He’d have to trust Sherlock this time. 

[CHAPTER 40](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/68320.html)

  



	40. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 40

The second the scent hit them Lestrade shot to his feet with an angry snort and Mycroft slid out of his chair and onto his knees. John felt bad for that, because he hadn’t been aware up until that point that Mycroft and his own dynamic had changed enough for Mycroft to kneel for him and he knew that it would hurt the man’s pride terribly.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Lestrade demanded, rounding the breakfast table and snatching the newspaper from John’s hands. He skimmed it in confusion, unable to find the source of John’s distress.

The scent of Alpha-enraged must have been potent because Mycroft still didn’t rise from the floor, though John heard him shift a bit.

“Damn it, John, _what set you off?_ ” Lestrade demanded, slamming the paper down.

He hadn’t seen it. He didn’t know. That was a _good_ thing, but John was still hurt and angry and his cock was achingly hard as his lizard brain came to the front and told him to go find and **claim** his wayward Omega. John was breathing hard through his nose, hands clenching the table now that Lestrade had wrenched the offending paper from them. He glared down at the small picture in the personals section. It was a wedding announcement between two betas; the woman John had seen with Sherlock and the man Sherlock was pretending to be – apparently with chemicals to hide his Omega scent.

“ _John!”_ Lestrade had grabbed him, turned him in his chair, and shaken him.

“I need a scene,” John blurted out.

“You’re too emotional for a scene. What happened?”

“I need a scene.”

“You’ll drop if I give you one, you can’t go into it like this. _What happened_? I’ll order you, John,” Lestrade warned.

“Sherlock’s found someone else.”

Lestrade looked frustrated, “Is that a lie?”

“No.” _Not technically._

Lestrade stepped back, releasing John, and gave him an unsure look. He glanced down at the paper, but still didn’t recognize Sherlock through the disguise. John didn’t look down at the paper. He’d fly into a rage if he did.

“My, you can stand up,” Lestrade called, and the Omega rose with an indignant look on his face.

“Sorry,” John offered, but the aristocrat only sniffed in offense, brushing crumbs off of his knees.

Lestrade sat down in the chair beside John’s and studied his face carefully.

“Mycroft and I have been talking about this… possible outcome,” Lestrade stated quietly, “And we’re okay with you staying here permanently as our friend, nanny, and… whatever else you might want to be.”

_Fuck!_

“Thanks,” John replied dryly, “No offense, but I _only_ want Sherlock. He’s the only one for me. Dynamically and otherwise.”

“That’s fine, too. He’ll have to maintain some kind of a relationship with you, for himself if not for the kids.”

“His ability to be both genius and obtuse knows no bounds, it would seem,” Mycroft stated, picking up the paper before John could think up a reasonable excuse for him not to.

Mycroft studied the paper; his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and then rose as a look of amusement crossed his face.

“Gregory,” Mycroft chortled, “I think John and I need a moment of privacy. Sub business. You understand.”

“Ah, sure,” Lestrade replied, rising to his feet and giving his bondmate a suspicious look.

Lestrade grabbed his coffee mug, and went into the playroom with Rupert who had finished his breakfast early. Mycroft sat down in Lestrade’s abandoned chair and smirked at John.

“So. What’s _really_ going on here? Because I find it hard to believe that my brother would be bored enough with you to disguise himself as a Beta, find another Beta to wed, and then post it in the papers for all the world – and me- to see. Especially since I have it on good authority from my dear Gregory and his voyeuristic tendencies that you are not the _least_ bit boring.”

“He’s going after someone who’s blackmailing me,” John decided to tell him after thinking on it a moment. He would just have to trust that Mycroft _wasn’t_ in on it. If he was betraying them, it wasn’t for money and it wouldn’t be to hurt them, either. He’d have to trust that the man had a ‘get them back out of danger’ card somewhere up his sleeve.

“Milverton?”

“Yes.”

“What has that Moriarty impersonator got on you?”

“Moran’s body and BG’s umbilical cord and placenta, plus evidence of where he got them from which implicates… other people.”

Mycroft looked shocked: “I would have suspected Sherlock to take better care in disposing of those.”

“He did, he had a fairly good plan laid out. Only someone who knew about Moran from the start would know to go looking for his remains in my parents yard, beneath BG’s buried birthing box.”

Mycroft leaned back, understanding in his eyes, and let out a sigh.

“I am not the one who betrayed you, John, nor is Gregory, to my knowledge.”

“Thank gods for that, because I’m fit to fall to pieces,” John breathed.

“You know this is an act,” Mycroft replied, gesturing to the papers.

“If it were Lestrade?”

Mycroft’s nostrils flared and John nodded.

“I nearly lost it yesterday, Mycroft. I saw him _kissing_ her. The only thing stopped me flying off the handle was the thought it could get him killed if I revealed him. I came here and… fuck, I cut myself again.”

John pulled up his sleeve to show several thin razorblade cuts on his arm.

“I’ll see if I can talk Lestrade into performing a scene with you,” Mycroft stated, rising and leaving the room without another word.

Lestrade didn’t have time for a scene so he took John to work with him instead, keeping a firm grip on the wrist of the aggravated Sub for the entire ride. He maintained a steady flow of meaningless orders to get him to calm down – touch your nose, nod your head – but it wasn’t working. It was his _Alpha_ side who was upset, not his Sub side, and only a fight would calm him down. When they arrived eyes followed them as Lestrade tugged him through the hall. It wasn’t normal to see an Alpha radiating Alpha-enraged scent being led through the Met with anything less than a full set of restraints on. When he sat John down in his office he shouted for Sally to bring him a set of said restraints and put John in an armbinder harness. He then pulled a bit gag out of his own office desk and stuffed it in John’s mouth, hooking it tightly.

“Is he okay?” Sally asked worriedly.

“He’s had a rough morning. I’m just calming him down. I didn’t think he’d stay this mad the whole car ride. Maybe I should have called out.”

No sooner had he said that then the dam broke and John started writhing and screaming around the gag, tugging violently at his restraints. Sally shut his office door while Lestrade put an arm out to catch him in case he fell, which happened an instant later and he just barely stopped John from cracking his skull on the hard floor. John screamed and kicked out, Sally quickly jumping in to help Lestrade cuff his ankles together and then wrap some leather cuffs around his thighs. Once he was mostly immobile they stepped back and just made sure he didn’t knock his head or limbs into anything sharp.

“Fucking hell!” Sally panted, staring at Lestrade in horror, “Is he on something?”

“Not that I’ve seen, and I think I’d have noticed.”

“He’s fighting like a meth head!” She argued, “He’ll be bruised as hell on his ankles from the way he’s fighting those metal cuffs!”

Lestrade sighed and John’s Sub mind screamed at him to get control, he was upsetting his pack Alpha, but his Alpha side was murderous; he felt utterly out of control.

_Get it together! Don’t disappoint him! You’ve been such a good Sub since coming out of the closet!_

_Kill the Beta! KILL HER! RIP HER APART!!_

_Sherlock help me please!!_

John dissolved into miserable sobs eventually and Lestrade crouched down to make sure he wasn’t having trouble breathing. Once he’d calmed a bit Lestrade left him with Sally while he hurried to report in and collect their caseload for the day. Sally knelt beside John’s head and reached a hand out. Once she was sure he’d allow the touch she gently petted his hair. John leaned into the caress, grateful for anything that he could get from a Dom at the moment.

“I don’t know what’s happened, but I’m here for you. I know that’s probably the last think you’d expect me to say, and that I’m probably the last person you’d want to come to, but I’m… I’m pack. I guess that’s all I’m trying to say.”

John sobbed and fought a bit more, but then went limp and took measured breaths in through his slightly stuffed up nose. He could breathe through the bit gag, of course, but it would shift uncomfortably if he released the grip his teeth had on it and breathing around it meant drooling on himself even more than he already had. He hated this kind; he preferred ball gags, but you didn’t always get a choice when your pack Alpha took over.

“Are you ready to be released?” Sally asked, still gently petting his head, and now she found a tissue to dab at his mouth with.

John thought on that. If he were released he’d do something stupid, but he was past the mindless rage at this point. He _did_ want the gag out, but not the rest of the restraints. He tapped the edge of the gag on the floor and Sally gently unbuckled it and pulled it from his sore jaw, patting his mouth more as she did so.

“Thanks,” John panted, “Just… just the gag. Hate that kind.”

“Not my cup of tea, either,” Sally smiled, “I use cloth.”

“Sherlock uses ball gags on me, the rubber kind.”

“Seems like his kettle of fish. You want to talk about it?”

John shook his head, “I’ll just go feral again.”

“I can respect that, done it myself a time or two,” Sally replied, fetching a fresh tissue to wipe his eyes. She even helped him blow his nose.

“You’re a good Dom, a gentle one,” John whispered, letting his head rest on the floor and closing his eyes.

“I’ve had a lot of practice lately. You want up off the floor?”

“No, thanks, Ma’am.”

“None of that, I’m just Sally.”

“Sally,” John smiled softly and she left off petting him to stand when Lestrade returned.

“You better?” Lestrade asked gently, also caressing John’s hair and letting him breath in his scent.

“A bit. Can I stay like this a while?”

“Don’t see why not. I’ll find someone I trust to subsit you. One of my pack.”

“Thanks.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock came for him that night, texting him to slip out the window and join him in secret. John landed on the inflatable mat Sherlock had put down to catch him and tried not to glare at him.

“You could have warned me,” John hissed.

“About what?” Sherlock asked with a confused frown.

“Your impending marriage. Felicitations.”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, “It was as much a surprise to me as it was to you. She went behind my back.”

“I don’t like this, Sherlock. Not just because of what you’re doing with that Beta– and I _don’t_ want to know what it is – but because she’s an innocent party and she’s going to be hurt by this.”

“Your moral standards are astounding, John. You let Lestrade choke and restrain you - yes, I saw the marks - and take hundreds of thousands of dollars from me, but you expect me to put a woman’s broken heart above the safety of our family?”

“That’s different. I only went to Lestrade because I need a Dom and you’re _not here_. You sent me away. I took the money because I didn’t see another way out, maybe it wasn’t the right choice, but at the time it looked it.”

“Then kindly analyze your previous statement and realize that I am only doing what I believe to be the right choice. The same with tonight, the adventure of which you may find morally discomforting. I can go without you, if you’d like.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Good. It may comfort you to know that I have an enemy amongst the household who she was trying to make jealous with her announcement. She’ll be fine.”

John nodded, “So what are we doing tonight that is morally reprehensible? Please say killing Milverton.”

“One moment you won’t break a heart, now you wish to plot murder. You _are_ a queer thing, aren’t you?”

“I’m not gay,” John smirked.

“I didn’t mean… you _know_ what I meant! It’s a figure of speech!” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “What about Lestrade?”

“What about him?”

“I _know_ he propositioned you. He’s been thinking about it for weeks. Mycroft gave him bloody permission!”

“Declined it. I’m not attracted to Alphas, Sherlock. I tried that, remember? Didn’t work out. I’m just attracted to you. You’re the exception because you _are_ an exception. My Perfect Match.”

Sherlock paused a moment, then leaned in and kissed John’s mouth hungrily before pulling away.

“We’re going to break in, locate the evidence, and destroy it.”

“That sounds a bit… he’s got an entire _body_ Sherlock.”

“Yes, and we’re going to burn the building down.”

John blinked, “The people who are there? I got the impression they lived there, too.”

“They sleep there, yes. We’ll set off the monoxide alarm, but only after making sure all the evidence rooms are filled with this gas compound.”

Sherlock pulled a small plastic ball from his bag. It looked utterly empty, but that didn’t mean it was.

“One per room, John, and there will be _nothing_ left of Appledore Towers. I’ve an incendiary device as well. Once we leave and the tower has been evacuated we set it off and he’ll be utterly destroyed in one night; no friends to fall back on and a great many enemies around him.”

“What about the surrounding buildings?”

“There won’t be a large enough blast radius, though I won’t pretend there is no threat to them. They are, thankfully, a bit of a distance from the Towers. Milverton is a paranoid man.”

“There’s no other way?”

“Not without exposing ourselves or some other poor soul. You’ll notice the date? My client, Miss Blackwell, has until tomorrow morning to come up with a sum of money she is incapable of raising or her very fragile Omega will find out that she was unfaithful and likely loose the child. He’s in hospital at the moment, the poor bastard, had to have his baby shower there.”

“Alright. Okay. Yeah, let’s do this, then,” John decided.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock’s association with the maid had granted him access codes, knowledge of staff and their master’s habits, locations of sleeping rooms (lumped together in one area) and numerous other probably useless tidbits. They went in over the garden wall and Sherlock cut a hole in the glass of the laundry room window where there was a gap in security. Appledore Towers was utterly dark and silent. John counted the windows as they waited and came up with eighty-one total rooms by window, but of course it would be a bit less than that as some rooms would have more than one window and they wouldn’t be touching the living quarters or facilities. John’s military training came into play as Sherlock showed him a map, rattled off instructions, and sent him on his way. They split up and met in the middle, tossing the little balls into each room. John saw that each had a thin, bare wire and a bit of putty on the outside. He had no idea how they worked other than that they were fragile and shattered once tossed. He was not to breath in the clear gas they emitted. As John glanced inside each room with his torch he saw that they were all well organized; one consisted of wall-to-wall filing cabinets while others resembled museums. On the ground floor, just before he met up with Sherlock again, he encountered the giant freezer where the bodies were kept. A glance to his right – closest the door – showed him Moran’s loose-jawed face behind a clear plastic pseudo body bag. He tossed two balls in for good measure and tried not to slam it shut. In fact, he had been told by Sherlock to leave this one ajar or the room wouldn’t have enough oxygen in it to combust properly. He managed it, but only just, and only by backing away rather than turning his back on it. What did he think, that Moran would rise from the dead and come after him?

_I’m too old to wish for a bed to jump on and hide beneath the covers._

Milverton’s office was the highest risk area and they met in there to search it briefly before tossing the final bauble, setting off the alarm, and fleeing to set off the device. This was, of course, where it all went to piss.

Sherlock had been watching the Towers for days to make sure he had their exact routines understood, but tonight Milverton deviated from the norm in the extreme. Where he had never stayed up past 9PM in the past and usually slept like the dead, tonight he was not only up at 4AM, but he had also roused a few of the staff. Milverton’s staff consisted of four bellhops and twelve armed guards on rotation from 8A till 8P, one handyman, one maid, and one housekeeper. His son, evidently, did not live with him and was still a mystery to Sherlock. He had two of the guards and one of the bellhops up at the moment. They were unaware of this until just before they had crossed the hall and entered Milverton’s office; John was tossing a ball into a final room when he noticed a light come on in the opposite tower through the current room’s window.

“Sherlock, there’s a light on in the East Tower,” John whispered when the man met up with him.

“I don’t like it,” Sherlock scowled, “Let’s hurry.”

Sherlock picked the lock into Milverton’s study, guessed the combination on the second lock after two tries, and slipped inside quickly and quietly.

“My acquaintance with the maid has caused her to lock the dogs up at night so that I might slip in and visit her at night on a whim. Milverton is supposed to be unaware as she does it after he goes to bed, but if he has found out…”

John nodded and moved to stand guard at the re-locked door.

“What do we do if something goes wrong?”

“There’s a window behind these decorative curtains, he always keeps them pulled which is why I believe there is something important in this office. If something goes wrong we throw the chair through the window an bolt out it.”

“Assuming there’s time.”

“Assuming there’s time,” Sherlock agreed, “If there is not we can hide behind them instead.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “My gods, John, he’s got something on _everyone_. This is his sample list – what he shows people who appear here and want proof he’s got more dirt on them. Here’s one of Lady Blackwell’s letters, here’s a note about someone whose name I fail to recognize but I’m sure he’s a politician judging by... There’s filth here on _Mrs. Hudson_ for fuck’s sake! Mycroft… my gods, John he knows Mycroft’s true position in the government! I’m not even supposed to know that! Oh, gods, _Mary_ , you poor lamb!”

John had pressed the plastic cup he’d snatched up from the hallway water cooler to the door and listened intently, but he needn’t have bothered. The key scraping on the lock was quite loud enough without the aid.

“Sherlock! The door!”

Sherlock stuffed the papers back as quickly as possible and they both scrambled behind the curtains. Milverton entered and sat down in his chair before rifling through a desk drawer – thankfully not the one Sherlock had disorganized. He settled in as if to remain and smoked a pipe while he read over a paper. He seemed to be waiting for someone and checked his watch repeatedly. Finally, two guards and a bellhop lead a woman into the room who was dressed all in black and had her face carefully covered by a veil.

“I hope the extra security doesn’t offend you, my dear, but we do have to maintain precautions. After all you have never asked to meet me so late. Could it not have been earlier? No? Well, then if it couldn’t, then it couldn’t.”

Milverton was as cheerful as always, his plastic smile stretched across his face and visible to John via a picture on his desk of a lovely curio, the glass of which acted as a vague mirror.

“I had great difficulty in getting this evidence for you, and I believe I’ve come under suspicion. The housekeeper wouldn’t let me in this time. I had to break in, but I’ve got it. He’s been investigating someone lately, and he always leaves it behind when he goes on a dangerous case. Otherwise he carries it with him everywhere.”

The woman – whose voice was somewhat familiar for John – pulled an extremely small metal urn from her handbag and placed it on the desk before fishing out some papers and adding them onto it. Beside him Sherlock gasped and clutched at John’s hand in the darkness, squeezing it almost painfully.

“According to the date on the birth records I found in his room it happened eleven years ago, around the time he stopped mucking about with cocaine. This must have been his ‘rock bottom’ that they say everyone’s got.”

Milverton had picked up the papers and was riffling through them: “Lost the child and nearly died himself. It says here he wasn’t arrested for it because he claimed to be unaware he was pregnant and his reaction was one of such horror and pain that the arresting officer felt he needed to be institutionalized for his own safety rather than arrested. His brother hushed it up before it made it to the courts, of course, though that isn’t in here.”

“He had nothing on the brother in his flat.”

“This is still quite worthwhile, my dear Katya. Hmmm, I had better check this isn’t a decoy,” Milverton continued, “He is apparently quite the genius- though he hasn’t shown it of yet- and I wouldn’t put it past him to plant a false urn of his dead infant’s ashes.”

John still hadn’t put two and two together until Milverton started reaching for the ashes and Sherlock’s scent exploded beside him.

_Omega-in-distress? Oh, gods, Sherlock! It makes so much sense; the isolation tactics, the way he forgave me after Moran, his acceptance of BG, his dread he wouldn’t conceive. It all makes so much sense. Oh, my sweet love, why didn’t you tell me?_

“Is something wrong, sir?” The woman asked, causing Milverton to pause. She must be an Alpha to have noticed Sherlock’s scent first despite being further away; they were far more sensitive than another Omega would be. Realizing she was an Alpha connected the dots for John.

_Dr. Katinski’s Alpha lover!_

“Hmmm? No, why… what on earth?” Milverton caught the scent and started to turn.

John pulled his gun out.

The door flew open and Mary Morsten appeared, firing a shot into the back of the veiled woman’s head. John froze as Milverton’s attention flew in that direction. He pulled open the drawer to get to his gun, but Sherlock had stolen it while he’d been riffling through the papers; he hefted it now, his eyes on the urn on Milverton’s desk, but John thought they looked wild and unfocused.

“You!” Milverton exclaimed.

“Yes, me. The woman whose life you ruined!” Mary sobbed, stepping fully into the room.

“You were very obstinate as I recall,” Milverton started, his voice laced with venom that was likely to cripple a more sensitive soul, “Had you headed-“

“Shut the fuck up! You had no right! A few more weeks. A few more weeks and I would have had that transplant! I’d have had a womb! I’d have given Mr. Morsten the babies he wanted! You destroyed that for us! You destroyed _everything_! And that dear sweet man, whose shoes I wasn’t even fit to lick the soles of, he took his life because of you!”

John dragged Sherlock to the ground just before Mary emptied her clip into Milverton, her aim wide at points and hitting the window where they had just stood.

“You… you… you done me!” Milverton stammered, his voice surprised despite the fact he was choking on blood. John marveled that he was able to speak at all.

“Not near as bad as you done my Daddy!” Mary sobbed, and strolled across the room to beat in the dead mans face with the heel of her Mary Jane shoes – grinding down on the glasses for good measure.

Shouting emerged from somewhere in the distance and John realized the remaining guards – for surely the other two had fallen to Mary’s hands already – were awake and headed their way. Mary bolted out the door before John could get to his feet and call for her, but from the sound of a slamming door she had her exit planned. John pulled Sherlock up and he pushed past John to grab the urn off the desk. John picked up the chair and threw it through the window, positive that following Mary was a bad idea.

“John,” Sherlock sobbed, and John turned to see Sherlock holding the urn to his stomach as though he could press his unborn child back into his womb and keep it safe, “John, my baby, she’s not safe here.”

John held his hand out for Sherlock, “We’re going to keep her safe, Sherlock. Come with me.”

John helped Sherlock out the window, but realized at the last moment he had no more gas balls to toss in.

_I wasted one in the freezer! Shit!_

A guard burst through the door and John and Sherlock fled the hail of bullets. The bolted across the guarden and the guard shot out after them.

“Where’s the damn dog? Stop! Stop!”

Up and over the wall they went – John’s ankle getting caught on by the guard for a moment - and John all but dragged Sherlock down the street and around the corner as shouts and alarms went off in the building. Up some stairs, down another set, over buildings and around them but Sherlock was waning, his fear catching up with him as the adrenalin wore off. Their weeks of fighting, the days of separation, the horror of having his unborn child ‘threatened’ by his enemy; John could _see_ the toll it had taken on him despite the darkness and the masks they wore.

“Sherlock! Quick! The incendiary device!”

John paused in an alley to give Sherlock a shake. He seemed dazed, his eyes wide with fear and his hands shaking as they clutched at the urn. John didn’t dare touch it. He had no idea how Sherlock would react. He was treating it like a living child.

“My love, look at me. Aiden and BG will be in danger if we’re caught out. The household is awake and they’ve had time to evacuate. Set off the device. I don’t know how it works; I don’t know what to do without my brilliant Omega. Please, Sherlock!”

“My Alpha, so brave,” Sherlock breathed, and pressed a hand into his breast pocket where he pulled out a small round remote, “Protecting me and my child, even though Constance isn’t yours. Have you already forgiven me? Of course you have. _My John._ ”

Sherlock hit the button and for a moment John thought someone had turned on massive amounts of Christmas lights as flames of all colors lit up the inside of the building, glaring out the windows to light up the streets around it, before dimming suddenly as oxygen was used up too quickly. The sound seemed to follow the flare, though it must have happened near the same time, and John heard the blast of windows bursting inwards from the implosion as oxygen was rapidly sucked from the rooms they guarded. John peered around the corner to see the building dancing with merry orange flames.

John glanced around for any witnesses before tugging off his and Sherlock’s masks and gloves. It was safer to walk away as though they had nothing to do with it than run away. John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulled his arm over him, and helped him walk away as though he were aiding his frightened Omega – which in many ways he was – to get further away from the fire. Sherlock was shaking in horror. John tugged him along until his scent took a sudden change and he swore in frustration, glancing around for someplace, _anyplace_ , to take care of his Omegas suddenly surfacing needs.

Sherlock’s terror had reached a high enough peak that he’d gone on mock heat.

“Thank gods we’re bonded or that scent would be attracting every bloody Alpha for miles,” John panted and scooped Sherlock into a bridal carry as the man moaned and his trousers became saturated with Omega lubricant. He’d be useless to walk.

John headed back for the alley they’d started in and called Mycroft even as he pressed Sherlock against a wall and snogged him hungrily. Sherlock was tugging his own clothes off and had started on John’s by the time Mycroft answered his mobile. A vague part of John’s mind felt something hard pressed against his chest and noted that the little urn was safely tucked in Sherlock’s breast pocket. Constance was safe, for now, but Sherlock was going to be undone by this.

“Have you any idea what time it is?” Mycroft sighed.

“Sherlock’s on heat. We’re a few blocks from Appledore Towers and they’ve just gone up in flames and it gave him a start. Can you send a car?”

“… Gregory, it’s for you,” Mycroft stated and the phone made a rustling noise as it was passed to Gregory.

John groaned as Sherlock’s leg wrapped around his waist and he pressed inside his needy lover. It was like Venezuela all over again; Sherlock’s Omega side fully exposed as he whimpered and clung to John, wordlessly begging for protection and love. He hadn’t gone on mock heat then, but he’d been close. Now he was keening and arching his back, exposing his neck as he wordlessly asked John to reaffirm that their bond was undamaged.

“Oh, gods, Sherlock,” John moaned and sank his teeth into the man’s throat even as he began to fuck him fast and hard.

“John, are you seriously calling me so I can here you two fuck?” Lestrade asked, his tone confused and a bit excited, and John released Sherlock’s bleeding shoulder to gasp out a reply.

“Mock heat,” He panted in response, his mind was leaning towards feral and he wouldn’t be able to keep a conversation up for long, “Alley off Hampstead High Street, near Willoughby road.”

“Fuck. I’m on my way.”

John dropped the phone and began to fuck Sherlock in earnest as the man panted and moaned against him. He felt a hesitant nip at his neck and bared his throat for Sherlock to sink his teeth into him. John groaned as the pain sent him over the edge and he came hard inside his beautiful lover. Sherlock threw his head back, and John felt the tickle of a small bit of blood running down his neck and into his shirt collar.

“Oh, gods, yes, John! Fill me up! Give me more! Oh, gods, more of your cubs. More of your come inside me! Oh, _gods_ , John make my stomach _swell_ with it!”

John ground his hips and wrung an orgasm out of his clingy detective, shouting in triumph at his accomplishment despite Sherlock’s mangled mental state. He heard the man cry out and felt his grip on his cock tighten once more and Sherlock’s second climax drew another from John’s eager body. He could feel himself slipping deeper into the wild fog that was heat. Lestrade needed to get there _soon_ or John wouldn’t be able to stop himself from attacking the man if he approached them from a direction that wouldn’t allow him to smell the pack Alpha.

Sherlock clenched John’s shoulders and lifted himself up higher so he could wrap his other leg around John’s hips. He happily supported the needy man’s weight and ground into the new angle, groaning in delight as Sherlock spurted between them once more. John’s ratty black shirt – worn for cover tonight – was soaked from Sherlock’s pleasure.

“I’m going to hate destroying this ‘evidence’ later. Remind me to get and keep a shirt with your come all over it,” John moaned.

He expected Sherlock to remark on what a foul idea that was, but the man was gone, his head sagging back against the wall as he dropped into an Omega’s near-hibernation state during heat. He would be incommunicado until he awoke in a good six to eight hours time. John rested his head against his taller Omega’s shoulder and took deep breaths. He had missed this scent, the sound of this heartbeat, and the warmth of these legs around his waist, the lovely way Sherlock _almost_ snored, the feel of his knot buried tight inside of him and pulsing out the last few drops of semen into his willing body. John felt in between them, touching Sherlock’s sticky abdomen, and groaned at the feel of it, swollen with his seed, and hoped beyond all prayer that this was a _fertile_ mock heat. They usually weren’t, but he could hope, couldn’t he? Mycroft had conceived Rupert during a mock heat.

A fancy black car pulled up to the alley way and a torch shined out the open window. John snarled at it instinctively and gave a warning growl. Someone got out anyway and headed towards them. John was growling steadily now, but his gun was on the ground with his trousers. He’d have to get his still-knotted self down there with a limp Omega wrapped around him before he could shoot the interloper.

“ **John. I am your pack Alpha. You will let me take you and your Omega to safety.** ”

John whimpered, bared his throat submissively, and was rewarded with a gentle suckle at his neck before his Alpha helped him support Sherlock into the car. John sagged his head back in relief. Safe. They were safe. Their pack Alpha would protect them while he bred his Omega. Sure enough, Lestrade pressed a water bottle to John’s lips and held it there while he drank, nuzzling behind his ear as he did so. John could feel Sherlock swallowing down some water as well; he’d drink instinctively when it was presented to him.

“Fuck, Sherlock smells so good, John. So fucking _good_. No wonder pack Alphas end up mounting their Omegas. Fucking _hell_. I… I don’t know if I can control myself… _fuck._ ”

Sherlock squirmed and whimpered sending fresh blood pulsing into John’s cock. He groaned at the wave of dizziness from his blood rushing into one area so fast and then began rocking his hips. Lestrade had removed John’s trousers from around his ankles, so now he opened his legs wide and got a deeper angle in his Omega’s beautiful body. Lestrade moved behind Sherlock and was kissing up and down his spine, moaning as he worked his hand firmly between his own thighs.

John didn’t _want_ to share Sherlock so he turned to the side, flipping his Omega beneath him and rubbing his knot more firmly into his body. Sherlock sighed in bliss as his orgasm shivered through him and John moaned appreciatively. Behind him he could feel Lestrade pushing his legs apart and kneeling between them. He was helpless and Sherlock was moaning and panting against his shoulder beautifully. He felt his cheeks parted and a tongue swiped and then prodded his arsehole.

_Pack Alpha. Submit._ John’s lizard brain commented.

John whimpered and allowed the contact to continue; which was really no hardship as it felt fucking _fantastic_. Lestrade removed his tongue and replaced it with a finger, deciding to bite John’s arsecheek instead. John shouted in surprise and excitement and his knot pulsed eagerly as he filled Sherlock’s body once more.

“That’s it, John, breed him,” Lestrade growled from behind John and sank his teeth into the opposite cheek, “Fill him up!”

Slap! Lestrade’s hand came down on John’s backside and both John and Sherlock came with a startled shout. John let himself slip fully into the heat and consciousness melted away into unrivaled lust.

Dear Readers: DON’T PANIC. Like I’ve mentioned before. John and Sherlock _will_ remain monogamous. See the story “Lestrade Walked In…” for a full look at what _really_ happened that night from Lestrade’s point of view. He stays cognizant a lot longer so there’s lovely smut.

[CHAPTER 41](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/68362.html)


	41. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 41

John awoke to the feel of Sherlock’s long violinist fingers carding through his hair. He sighed in contentment… until he felt something prod at his arse.

John yelped and jerked forward, trying to escape the foreign intrusion, but Sherlock held him securely and told him not to move. They were still knotted together and inside the car.

“What the hell is going on?” John demanded.

“I don’t see any blood or signs of tearing. If he was penetrated, it wasn’t by anything thicker than a finger or two,” Mycroft’s voice echoed behind him.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” John demanded loudly.

“When I awoke Lestrade was lying on top of you. I checked you for blood myself, but I couldn’t be sure you were unharmed from this angle and we were still knotted at the time. I called Mycroft since he was closest.”

Lestrade took that moment to groan and John turned his head to see him lying on the floor of the car with his trousers around his ankles. His cock was still hard but the knot had receded. John noted that he felt sticky and crusty, but not sore in any way.

“I don’t feel like I’ve been…” John almost said raped and then swallowed it down. Pack Alpha. Lestrade had the right to mount and fuck any of them; even a court would only assign him counseling to try to determine why his instincts hadn’t stopped him from penetrating a male Alpha during a heat when an Omega was present. John would be waved aside as ‘oh, what a shame that happened to you’ without an ounce of support. Especially since he was a Sub.

“I don’t understand,” John stated instead, “His instincts should have made him go after Sherlock. Mine should have let him. That’s not what I… vaguely… remember happening.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Our skewed dynamics? The fact it was a mock heat and not a real Heat?”

“His scent is all over you,” Mycroft intoned, “I think Sherlock’s 2nd theory would be the correct one. Back before we developed functioning cognitive thought it was normal for a pack Alpha to breed all their Omegas to keep the genetic pool wider spread – and Gregory has mentioned having that urge at times. However, it was also normal for a pack Alpha to join in and simply give pleasure to both during dry or mock heats. It was a way to get the Omega to drop an egg by overwhelming him with Alpha pheromones. It increases the chance that Sherlock will go on a proper Heat, probably in the next two days. ”

Sherlock looked hopeful and John smiled at the thought of Sherlock round with another baby.

“Oh, fucking hell, my _back_ ,” Lestrade groaned, and everyone angled themselves to stare at him relentlessly, “What?”

“Your fondness for John has outweighed my comfort, Lestrade,” Sherlock stated with no hint of anger in his voice, “Would you care to explain yourself?”

“What are you… oh my gods. Oh, buggering, fucking hell!” Lestrade was immediately up on his knees peering between John’s arsecheeks.

“Will everyone _please_ stop looking up my arse!” John shouted angrily.

“I’m sorry, John. Oh fucking hell, I’m so sorry!” Lestrade babbled, yanking his trousers up over his now flaccid dick, “I don’t even remember… Should we take him to a hospital?”

“Unnecessary, he’s unharmed,” Mycroft sighed, “Though perhaps you had better explain to him what you have to me.”

“I… Look, Sherlock it’s not… It’s not what you think. I’m not _in love_ with John, or even particularly attracted to him. Or you. No offense. I just… It’s something to do with being a pack Alpha. I’ve talked to a few others and they have the same weird mix of feelings. This damned persistent attraction to everyone in their pack they aren’t biologically related to – over a certain age, of course – and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.”

“Perhaps the carport is not the best place to discuss this,” Mycroft sighed and Lestrade nodded and left the car.

John slipped his completely limp member from Sherlock’s body and then swore at the flood of semen. Sherlock only chuckled.

“Does that happen _every_ time we…”

“Yes, or were you under the ridiculous impression that it just stayed inside me?”

“It’s never done that outside of Heat!”

“Well, no, but there’s significantly _less_ outside of Heat. Normally my body will clench and hold it in, but at times like this it’s a physical impossibility. Hence the deluge and impending dry-cleaning bill.”

John climbed out of the car on week knees and then helped Sherlock out. They leaned against each other a moment and then John spotted a pile of towels. He passed a couple to Sherlock and he folded one and stuffed it between his legs before wrapping the other around his waist. John gave his crusty backside an uncomfortable scrub and then wrapped a towel around his waist as well. He stripped off the shirt soaked in Sherlock’s come and watched Sherlock do the same with his own after removing the little urn from the breast pocket.

Sherlock stared at the urn sadly and John reached out to take his soiled shirt from him. He put all their clothes – and even their shoes – in a provided trash bag. He’d talk to Mycroft about it being destroyed.

“Sherlock,” John started, catching his empty hand because he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch the urn, “Look at me, love?”

Sherlock raised his eyes and John thought he might drown in the sorrow reflected back at him.

“I’m a good mother, John,” Sherlock whispered, “Aren’t I? I’d never hurt BG or Aiden.”

“Yes, yes, you are an _excellent_ mother, Sherlock. They never lack for anything.”

“Constance…” Sherlock looked down at the urn, “I don’t even remember the heat cycle I conceived her in. I was so strung out. I’ve no idea who her father was. If I’d known I was pregnant… Do you still trust me?”

“Yes,” John replied, pulling his Omega into his arms, “Gods, Sherlock, of course I do.”

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you it just… I can’t talk about it. I had no idea how to bring it up. Isn’t that ridiculous? I’ve never had something I _couldn’t_ figure out an opening line for.”

“I’ve got quite a few things I can’t discuss, either, Sherlock. I’m not about to judge.”

“You thought I was a virgin…”

“Hush, I don’t care.”

“I felt like one. I had no idea what it felt like to have an Alpha’s penis inside me. That counts, I suppose.”

“Sure it does. Yeah.”

Mycroft took that moment to reappear, “There’s a shower right… oh.”

John looked up and saw Mycroft’s eyes on Sherlock’s hand holding the urn. Lestrade was right behind him and Mycroft quickly moved to block his view.

“My, tell them if they’re uncomfortable inside I can leave and… well I guess that settles that. I’ll go, okay, John? Sherlock? I don’t… I’m sorry. I couldn’t control myself, I know that’s no excuse but…”

“Mycroft, move. Let him in,” Sherlock leaned against John for comfort.

“What’s wrong? Is John hurt?” Lestrade asked as he pushed past Mycroft.

“No, I’m fine, Greg,” John comforted as the man came into the carport again, “Sherlock and I were just talking. Let’s shower, yeah?”

“He already knows. He was the officer at the hospital who gave me a second chance,” Sherlock replied.

Lestrade had noted the tiny urn in Sherlock’s hand and given it a worried look, but he nodded and stepped back. Mycroft showed them to the shower and once they were clean they met them in the sitting room. Mycroft and Lestrade were curled up together on a loveseat, Lestrade in track pants and a t-shirt. Mycroft was in a housecoat with silk sleeping pants peering out from what little they could see of his tucked legs.

“Thanks for the clothes,” John stated, indicating the pajamas they both wore.

“Not a problem,” Mycroft replied, motioning to the nearby sofa, “Sandwiches and tea are on the way as well as plenty of water.”

John sat down and Sherlock immediately flopped onto his back with his head in John’s lap.

“Sherlock’s mock heat was caused by your distance or Milverton’s discovery of Constance?” Mycroft asked.

“Both, most likely,” Sherlock replied for himself.

“We were both teetering on the edge of something feral,” John remarked, petting Sherlock’s hair, “Oh, that reminds me. Sherlock, I’m owed a punishment. I cut myself again.”

Sherlock stiffened and then sat up, “Where?”

John showed his arm and Sherlock swore a bit before suddenly sagging and curling back up on the couch with his head in John’s lap.

“I don’t feel like it. Let Lestrade punish you,” Sherlock pouted.

“Ah, Sherlock, that might not be such a good idea,” Lestrade countered, “Seeing as how I apparently sexually assaulted him and all.”

John laughed, “Look, I know I come across as fragile as hell lately, but whatever it was we did, I’m not upset about it. I mean, I’ve already mentioned I’m not interested, but I don’t feel like a victim here. If it helps make things less awkward for you, I’m not craving a punishment. I’ll accept one obviously, if you feel like giving me one and since I did break a rule, but I’m not gagging for it.”

“Then unless Sherlock objects I’m not going to. You’ve been through hell, a bit of rebelling is understandable,” Lestrade replied with a shrug.

Mycroft scoffed, “You would never be so lax with me.”

“Quiet, you,” Lestrade growled and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Are _you_ fine with this, Mycroft?” John asked.

“I know Gregory loves me,” Mycroft replied, “And we’ve already had the ‘how could you want someone besides me’ argument backwards and forwards. I now understand his urges better. Communication is truly essential to any relationship. I am unconcerned and it feels oddly… natural.”

“It does, yeah. I didn’t want him touching Sherlock, but him touching me was okay. Like I said, I only want Sherlock, but when we were in the car it was wild and primal; Greg participating felt like what needed to happen.”

“Perhaps it was,” Sherlock murmured.

The food arrived and it was the perfect transition from thoughtful to comfortable as they all tucked in. Sherlock decided he didn’t feel like moving again so he lay on his back and John tore up pieces of sandwich and fed it to him. Mycroft gave them disgusted looks but was otherwise silent. Only John seemed to notice that Sherlock was still tightly gripping the urn in one hand.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

By that evening Gregson and Dimmock had started texting Sherlock, wanting to know his whereabouts. He gave Dimmock a call back and put it on speakerphone. John listened in fear as they complained about how a horrific crime had been committed in Hampstead and much property damaged because of it. John was relieved to hear that the body count he could attribute to his and Sherlock’s actions sounded as though they were restricted to one bellhop.

“The thing is, we already suspected this bloke of being into some shady dealings, and well we should because the firemen found a freezer full of bodies – all so badly burnt the mortician claims we won’t get a bit DNA off of them. Still, there was a fresh crime downstairs. Someone shot and killed Milverton and an Alpha by the name of Katya Volsky-Katinski: shot them dead in his study and escaped. Now, we got a description of one of the men from a guard who survived the whole ordeal.”

“There was more than one?” Sherlock questioned.

“Yes, two in masks, and they were almost caught red-handed but the guard was only near enough to get a look and a sniff in at one. Listen to this: White male Alpha with blonde hair, and under six feet, wearing a black mask. We have their footprints, too. What do you think, Sherlock? Ten to one we’ll catch them!”

“That’s a bit vague,” Sherlock decided, “Why that might be a description of my husband!”

“True, it might be a description of John,” Dimmock replied with a chortle.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with this one, Dimmock,” Sherlock stated firmly, “You see the fact is I knew this Milverton and that he was virtually untouchable by the law. I believe that there are some times when personal revenge is justified. No, don’t argue. There’s no use. Today my sympathies are with the criminals rather than the victims. I will not handle this case. Good day.”

Sherlock ended the call and John scowled at him.

“Might be a description of your husband, eh?”

Sherlock laughed heartily and John sighed and shook his head.

“What am I going to do with you, Sherlock?”

[CHAPTER 42](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/68644.html)


	42. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 42

This chapter is dedicated to Stellasilvae for your enticing prompts: Hope you enjoyed!

 

Sherlock’s next move was to call Mary, who packed up the kids and some overnight things and brought them over to join them at Mycroft’s home. Sherlock was well and truly settled in and John was starting to wonder if he intended to spend his upcoming heat here. He seemed needy of family nearby, though he hadn’t asked for and wasn’t _quite_ behaving as though he needed a furpile.

“What are we going to do about her showing up at Milverton’s?” John asked Sherlock after he’d ended the call with Mary.

“Nothing.”

“Sherlock, she left our kids _alone_.”

“She left them with Mrs. Hudson, actually, though I will be having words with her. Mrs. Hudson shouldn’t be responsible for two young children at her age.”

“Well, I’m glad we agree on that!”

“I’m far more concerned with Dr. Katinski.”

John drew silent. He’d been trying not to think about that part. To think one of their Alphas, let alone a pack member, had betrayed them, was just stomach turning. Alphas were supposed to _protect_ Omegas, and here she had been helping set them up, putting Sherlock and their children at risk. True, they hadn’t been particularly close to Katya, but she’s had tea with them on countless occasions, been bonded to their therapist, and been there for the furpile for fuck’s sake! That sort of thing was usually incredibly intense for Alphas, making them fiercely protective of anyone at the furpile.

“Why do you think she did it?” John wondered.

“She did not seem agitated,” Sherlock sighed, tossing himself down in a chair, “I can only surmise that she was not under threat. We may never know her true motive.”

“Who’s going to tell Katinski?”

“He’ll have noted her absence by now. I image the police have already contacted him. He may have been a Beta, but they had a formal bonding despite that. Most times the police respect that. If he calls for us we’ll be there for him, but I see no reason to point out his grief. Let him remain unknowing of her betrayal.”

“It’s stupid, you know? That just because someone’s a Beta their marriage means less and can be ended by the Alpha at any point.”

“You’re forgetting Lestrade. His marriage ended the second Mycroft propositioned him,” Sherlock snapped his fingers in demonstration.

“Yes, but they were unhappy.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock chided, “Still so naïve. It would have ended the second _any_ Omega propositioned him: survival of the species. Our minds may be more advanced than our biology, but the _lizard_ half – our chemical composition – demands that we procreate, and that is an act Betas are unable to take part in.”

“What about Molly and Harry?” John asked, surprised he could get their names out without tearing up, “Mycroft said they were Perfect Matches.”

“They were both Omegas, that’s different. Beta’s can’t have Perfect Matches; some can’t even have sex at all.”

“But they couldn’t have ‘procreated’ with each other.”

“The hormones present in Alpha and Omega are not so different; their biological imperative was tricked, that’s all.”

“So it’s what? Wrong?” John asked miserably.

“No. Never wrong,” Sherlock looked up at him and smiled comfortingly, “How long have you wondered this, John? Our society frowns so much on what they died trying to have: a chance to be together and happy. Yes, they made mistakes along the way – dreadful ones, really- but were they wrong for loving each other? No. Never. Put such thoughts out of your mind. There are times when even biology can be imperfect and inaccurate. We are, after all, only human.”

John smiled at his Dom and sank down to his knees to rest his head in Sherlock’s lap. Those long fingers carded through John’s hair while he closed his eyes and visions of Harry climbing trees and braiding daisy chains danced in his head. How unfair for Sherlock to have missed that with Constance, to have her snatched away from him before he got a chance to pet _her_ hair. This close to his core John could already smell the change in Sherlock’s body that signified he was headed for heat. He had refused dinner earlier, downing a cup of herbal tea instead. They would have a day or two of quiet and then Sherlock would be on heat. At least they could leave the kids here with Mycroft this time; children always faired better with an Omega nearby.

“John,” Sherlock started, “I’m sure you noticed that I’m… a bit unwilling to leave.”

“I had noticed, yeah.”

“I’m thinking that in light of our financial situation and our recent… nightmare…” Sherlock petered off and John raised his head and smiled at him encouragingly.

“Whatever you want, Sherlock. Have I ever not just gone along with you?”

Sherlock smiled softly and pulled John closer for a kiss, “I haven’t asked them yet.”

“I’m sure they’ll want us to stay, the only question is can you handle Lestrade?”

Sherlock blinked, “I think you meant Mycroft, and the answer to that is we’ll likely avoid each other or snark a bit. We’ve grown closer since the children.”

John shook his head and sighed a bit.

“I meant _Lestrade_ , Sherlock. He’s attracted to me, quite a bit more than he lets on.”

“He’ll have to go without,” Sherlock shrugged indifferently.

“To put temptation that close…”

“If he walked in and ordered you to your knees to service him right now, what would you do?”

“Punch him.”

John blinked. The words had left his mouth before he could even think about them. Sherlock was grinning approvingly, but it was easier said than done.

“Sherlock,” John sighed, “He’s pack Alpha and-“

“-And this is the 21st century. Do try to keep up. Yes, the law would be on his side, but he isn’t some slavering beast after your arse. He wouldn’t force you and you wouldn’t let him. Any other concerns over us moving here?”

“What about Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson? Mary is pretty self reliant, but Mrs. Hudson thinks of us as her children.”

“All children must leave home someday. There is more room here to have more children and Mycroft has apparently decided not to bother having a Beta bear him more since you and I are determined to reproduce till I drop. I think it has a bit more to do with his power plays and trust issues, personally, but that’s just a theory. Anyway, we’ll be keeping 221B for an office, our former bedroom as our dungeon, and the kid’s bedroom a playroom with a few napping mats. 221C we’ll ditch. I know of a client who could use a place to stay, I’ll refer him to Mrs. Hudson so she doesn’t loose out financially.”

“You’ve been thinking this through for a bit.”

“Not really, you know how my brain works. I…”

The study door opening cut off Sherlock as the children ran in -Aiden toppled over, but got up again on his own- for hugs and kisses. Sherlock put his arms out and his toddlers pressed into him, sniffing and making soft mewling noises to draw out his instinct to scent them after so long apart. Sherlock pulled one onto each knee and licked their necks and cheeks, making them laugh and squirm happily.

“Whewe wewe you mummy?” BG slurred, his R’s still not rolling correctly.

“I had a romantic date with your daddy,” Sherlock announced proudly, “And we’re going to stay the night here all curled up in a big bed together.”

“All of us? Me and Aiden, too?” BG asked, bouncing a bit and clapping his hands. Aiden wobbled, but Sherlock tugged him closer and kept him securely on his lap.

“You and Aiden, too,” Sherlock confirmed, “We’re going to have a little mini furpile of our own.”

_So that’s why he’s acting this way! Not a proper furpile, just one with the kids to reunite us properly. Oh, Sherlock, you and your repressed sentimentality. You’d never admit it out loud, but you missed us all, didn’t you?_

John smiled softly and called the kids over to himself. They scrambled down – Aiden with Sherlock’s careful assistance – and snuggled into John, repeating the mewling sounds so he would scent them as well. While John was wiping the happy tears from BG’s face, Sherlock headed over and pulled Mary out into the hall rather forcefully. It wasn’t unheard of for Dom’s to punish Betas, but John wasn’t sure Mary was deserving of one. Still, it wasn’t his place as Sub to interfere.

If Sherlock did punish Mary it must have been verbally, because they both slipped back into the room before the kids even had a chance to notice Sherlock was missing and put up a fuss. Mary looked a bit pale, but she also seemed at peace in a way John hadn’t seen until now. There had always been a small tenseness at the corner of her eyes – a bit of crows feet she hadn’t had the first time they’d met her – which was now gone. John smiled at her and she returned it willingly, her eyes conveying so much more than he thought he could manage in an awkward conversation.

XXX

Sherlock, Aiden, BG, and John all climbed into the impossibly large bed that John had been staying in for nearly a week. BG howled with excitement and jumped up and down on it. Aiden decided that was inspired and tried to do the same, but really just stood up and did little bobs on his feet – more like bouncing squats. He wasn’t quite mobile enough to manage more than that, but he was squealing in delight and clapping his hands and it was probably the first time John had heard that. Aiden was usually so reserved.

John sniffed carefully at the sheets and found they’d been changed; he would have had to do so if they hadn’t as he refused to spend a night with his family on bed sheets he’d shared a scene on with Lestrade. They shouldn’t smell their pack Alpha at a time like this.

Sherlock decided the bed jumping was great fun and joined the boys while John laughed a bit from the side. Sherlock had Aiden on his hip and BG by the hand and they were jumping and singing London Bridges before tossing themselves down. Aiden gave a terrified scream, but came up laughing hysterically. John was taking pictures with his phone and refusing to join in – he’d much rather watch – when the night got even better.

“Daddy!” BG called, jumping off the bed and into a surprised John’s arms.

“ _Oof!_ Yes, love?”

“Daddy, I has to go potty.”

Sherlock froze, gaping, and John grinned from ear to ear. BG had been refusing to use the ‘big boy potty’ to the extent they had stopped asking, assuming he simply wasn’t ready. Most boys his age were already potty-trained, or at least in the midst of figuring it out.

“Well, let me show you where it is!” John declared, and proudly marched his son the ensuite.

“Wow! It’s so shiny!” BG crowed, and John tried to contain his laughter, “You go fiwst, daddy.”

John knew this was a part of training, but it was more than a bit awkward. He decided to sit since that was likely what BG would be doing. He covered up his nerves by giving ridiculously detailed instructions, but BG narrowed his eyes in Sherlockian fashion and took it all in as though he were explaining physics.

Once John had managed to squeeze out a few drops he helped BG sit on the toilet. The poor boy had to prop one hand behind him and use the other to hold his willy down, but he managed it and shouted out when he finally started going.

“Mummy! Mummy! I’m peeing in the potty!”

“That’s fantastic, treasure!” Sherlock called, appearing in the doorway with Aiden on his hip.

“No! Aiden can’t watch!” BG shouted, waving his hand and nearly splattering John with wee.

Sherlock laughed and headed off, with Aiden giving them a baffled look as though they were all insane.

John cleaned up the small mess and helped BG wash his hands before heading back into the bedroom. Sherlock had started a story with Aiden and BG eagerly joined in. Once the boys had been suitably tuckered out they all snuggled down into the bedding together. John had Aiden snuggled against his chest and Sherlock had BG tucked beneath his chin. BG had charmingly thrown his arm over Aiden’s hip. Sherlock and John held hands over the tiny boys bodies and smiled softly at each other in the dark.

“Ready for another?” John whispered.

“Gods, I hope it’s twins,” Sherlock replied, looking alarmingly giddy. John had noticed he was a bit fluttery during the first two days of his heat cycle. Apparently ovulating made one girlish and excitable.

John refrained from laughing uproariously, “You’re mad! One at a time is fine with me.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The next day they headed to 221B, leaving Mycroft with the kids, and started packing up BG and Aiden’s room. They’d move the kids in first, spend the heat here, and then move their things afterwards. Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them to pack up the dungeon before showing it to their new tenant, but they wouldn’t have time today. Once they had gotten everything into the truck and sent it on its way for Lestrade to unload they collapsed on the sofa. John cracked a beer and Sherlock downed several glasses of water and one of juice all in quick succession.

“Your arse,” Sherlock stated contemplatively, “Is made to be shown off in track pants. I’ve always considered them rather the lowest form of fashion, but I concede the point to you now that I’ve seen you lifting boxes with all that polyester clinging to your ass crack.”

“I’m… flattered,” John chuckled, not aware of his disapproval of that particular aspect of his wardrobe.

“I think we need to say goodbye to our dungeon,” Sherlock purred, and John grinned eagerly, “If you’re _very_ good and let me indulge in a new fantasy I have, I’ll reward you.”

“Mmmm,” John smirked, “What fantasy would that be?”

Sherlock looked hesitant, biting his full plump bottom lip, and the sight of that would have made John agree to _anything_.

“Orgasm denial.”

“We’ve done that before.”

“Complete orgasm denial, while I bugger you until I’m done using your body for _my sole pleasure_ ,” Sherlock breathed huskily.

It was probably entirely insane that he got hard from just that: “Oh. Gods. Yes.”

There was a whirlwind of pawing at each other once they got to the dungeon, tugging off clothes and moaning at the strong scent on their sweaty bodies. Sherlock took a moment to lick between John’s shoulder blades where the sweat from moving furniture had been tickling him earlier. He giggled embarrassingly and tugged away.

“Oi! No tickling! That’s in my contract!”

It was a long-standing joke between them that John had ‘no sexual tickling’ in his contract. Harry had used to pin him down and tickle him until he wet himself until he’d finally gained a few stones on her. He absolutely did _not_ equate sex with tickling. Sherlock occasionally hovered on the line by doing something to tickle him just _before_ they started playing, but he was respectful enough of John’s hard stops to leave it out of their sex life otherwise, despite it being something non-triggery and harmless.

Sherlock bound John’s cock first, since he’d go hard the moment the ropes were on him, but John was surprised to find he used a ring instead of a full cock cage.

“Sherlock, this isn’t going to keep me from coming once you start wailing on my prostate,” John argued.

“Shhhh,” Sherlock soothed, pushing him towards the St. Andrew’s cross. He briefly shuddered at the last memory of this SAC, but he wasn’t about to develop an issue with _that_ so he shrugged it off.

“You,” Sherlock whispered, kissing his neck as he bound him into the cross with simple Velcro restraints, “are going to be a _very_ good Sub and keep yourself from coming with just that little bit of help. If you manage it, I’ll reward you. _Extensively._ ”

Sherlock’s vibrating baritone went straight to John’s cock as though the man had spoken with John’s shaft in his mouth. John groaned and clutched at the chains the soft cuffs were attached to as Sherlock bound his ankles as well. Sherlock was practically breathless, though John hadn’t known him to be overly sexual in the days before he hit the breeding part of his heat cycle.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard, John,” Sherlock panted.

“Mmmmm,” John moaned as Sherlock added a gag for good measure. John loved this ball gag. It was the largest they owned and John had to press his tongue against it to keep from literally gagging, despite the practice he’d had at holding off his gag reflex. It filled his whole mouth and kept his jaw almost achingly open.

_Note to self, get one of those cock-shaped ones_ , John moaned again at that thought, deciding that had ‘birthday gift’ written all over it.

“Whatever you’re thinking about, stop it,” Sherlock ordered, “Your focus is on me now.”

John nodded enthusiastically and Sherlock shoved a finger into him without warning, thankfully lubricated. John groaned and thrust back to show how eager he was to be used. Sherlock groaned and speedily prepared his body; once done he buried himself in without preamble. This wasn’t like Sherlock. He usually wanted to spend hours toying with John first. This really _must_ be a fantasy of his; then again selfishness was a Dom trait… and a Holmes trait as well. Perhaps the idea of taking from John endlessly, without spending time to think on recompense, was a bigger fantasy than Sherlock had let on.

Sherlock moaned heatedly as he pounded into John, who was achingly hard but not distressed at the moment. Then Sherlock shifted and found his prostate and John was groaning in agony. He’d have a hard time coming on Sherlock’s cock alone simply because he was an Alpha, but it had happened a time or two and the cockring around his shaft only – as opposed to one that wrapped up the testicles, too - wasn’t nearly enough to stave it off when Sherlock utilized his rather shocking good aim. Then the bastard decided to reach around and stroke John’s cock for good measure. John growled and thrashed, angry with the man for cheating, but bloody _loving_ it all the same. His knot was filling up with blood; if he could have glanced down around the X of the cross he would have seen it purple and throbbing.

When Sherlock stilled and came the first time he did so while squeezing John’s knot until the man was sobbing from the effort of restraining himself. Then he stroked up to the tip again, which required he lean forward so he gave him a sharp bite on the shoulder for good measure, then back down again to fondle his heavy bollocks. John was writhing, enjoying the feel of the man inside him and stroking his cock but frustrated by it as well. Sherlock resumed thrusting and John wailed in painful ecstasy, as his body demanded he be allowed to climax, but Sherlock was far from done with him.

“Do you know how wanton you look, John?” Sherlock gasped into his ear, his hands gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises, “My own personal cock slut. Do you think they know at the Yard how much you love me fucking you? Big strong Alpha with a cock up his arse. I should order you to tell them. Have you walk up to each and every one of the detectives we work with, shake their hand, and say ‘I, John Watson, am a filthy man-whore who loves guzzling cum and being fucked fast and hard’.”

John groaned, especially at the guzzling cum part. He only regretted not being able to suck some of Sherlock’s down right now. That was the benefit of topping Sherlock in John’s mind: watching the man come all over the place and then devouring it. Especially while he had a round belly full of John’s children…

_Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, don’t think that! Think about..._

“You’re thinking about my come, aren’t you?” Sherlock purred and John nodded enthusiastically, “My perfect Submissive.”

Sherlock bit John’s shoulder and came again, his groan almost a scream against John’s flesh.

John hit subspace then, and it was only his previous mindset _not_ to come that stopped him from doing so as he floated in that blissful paradise that only Sherlock had ever given him. He was still aware of Sherlock buggering him senseless (literally) but it was all external now. He was riding the wave of endorphins that left him floating in a Beatles-esque kaleidoscope paradise. He heard Sherlock moaning his name and felt the man climax again, his body dripping with the Omega’s semen. Sherlock slipped free of him with a satisfied groan and John felt the press of a buttplug. It was a surprisingly large one, almost uncomfortable, but John doubted Sherlock would leave it for long.

He was stroked and petted after that, being allowed to gently come down from his headspace as Sherlock removed the ball gag and ankle restraints. While John was carefully supported across the length of him Sherlock undid the arm restraints and they gently sagged to the ground together. John wasn’t aware he was giggling madly until Sherlock pinched him and demanded to know why.

“Lucy in the sky with diamonds!” John announced, laughing harder.

“What? Who’s Lucy?” Sherlock asked, going stiff with jealousy.

“The Beatles,” John guffawed, “Lucy in the sky with diamonds. You send me to _groovy_ outer space!”

“Are you _drunk_? Remind me not to let you have a beer before putting you into subspace. Apparently a precarious combination. How did you even get there when I barely did more than fuck you?”

“S’good. S’good buggering.”

Sherlock chuckled, “I’m so glad you approve. Now I’m going to get your reward ready, you remarkable thing, and you are going to come upstairs when you’ve remembered your name.”

“Lucy!” John giggled.

Sherlock laughed and let John curl up on the floor, leaving a bottle of water within reach in case he needed it.

After a few minutes of quiet and the steady coolness of the floor to settle him, John stood and headed upstairs, blushing profusely at what a fool he’d made of himself. Sherlock, thankfully, seemed uninterested in tormenting him for his bazaar behavior.

Sherlock was fully dressed and looked impeccable. He was also smiling that wicked smile that usually meant John was going to be tied up for hours, but a glance proved there were no ropes in sight. Instead, John was ordered to step forward and Sherlock gently released the clasp on the cockring. John gasped as his erection flagged a moment and then renewed. His knot had diminished while he’d been downstairs, but the ring had forced his erection to remain for the most part – unfulfilled and throbbing the whole time.

Then Sherlock pulled out a plain yellow apron with pockets and a tie around the waist. John blushed as he was made to put it on then directed to the kitchen where a bucket of soapy water and a sponge waited.

“You’re going to enjoy this, I think, but there’s no point in making a mess we’ll just have to clean up later when we move things around again so you’ll have to clean at the same time. Of course, you’ll have to pull the apron out of the way when you come.”

Sherlock followed John across the room and pulled a black box with handles down from the table. He knelt behind John as the man got down on all fours beside the bucket. He pulled out the buttplug and quickly slipped a handle-like apparatus inside in place of the plug. It was part of a curved device that pressed against his testicles as well, settling cold and wet against his perineum where it would stimulate his prostate from that end. The device was secured via a long stretch of Velcro through a clasp around John’s torso, settling above his cock for support.

“Sherlock… what is this?”

“Something equally new, and _very_ exciting for you. Electrifying, you might say.”

_Oh my gods, e-stim. I’ve only ever wanked to this._

John was grinning and shaking with anticipation by the time Sherlock turned John’s chair around and settled with the controls in his lap. Then he turned it on.

Sherlock must have started on low, because at first all John felt was a slight involuntary spasm of his muscle walls and a warm feeling. The warm feeling increased until it was _almost_ too hot to be comfortable, but then Sherlock pressed a button and John felt something similar to that pleasurable clench just before an orgasm. It started up and _didn’t fucking stop._ John was gasping within seconds, taking in large gulps of air as perspiration practically dripped off of him. His knot was so swollen it felt ready to burst, but John was held right on the precipice.

“Oh, gods, Sherlock!”

“More?”

“YES!”

Sherlock hit the button again and just like that John was coming, his screams echoing off the walls as his arms buckled and he sagged forward onto the apron pooled beneath his upper torso. John sobbed into it as the power dropped back down low again.

“Too much?” Sherlock asked, and the power cut off completely before John felt Sherlock’s hands soothing his hips.

“Oh, gods, no. Fucking… fantastic… oh, _fuck_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock chuckled and returned to his chair with a loud _whump_ as he dropped into it. John propped himself up on his hands and grabbed the sponge, eager to clean up the mess he’d made as his mind skipped around in a fresh subfrenzy. Sherlock must have anticipated that would happen after their recent ordeal, separation, and reunion. John would have gone round the bend without this extra bit of task to keep him focused.

“That was just the third setting. It goes up to six. Think we can make it tonight?”

John’s response was a whimper and Sherlock started to turn the device up. John was instantly humping the air, moaning throatily and begging for more. Sherlock turned it up twice and John spread his legs a bit to brace himself as he shot back into subspace with enough force to cause whiplash.

“Your bollocks are so tight to your body, John,” Sherlock whispered, the words dancing around his head like an echo in a cavern, “Would you like more?”

“Yes, sir! Please, sir! More, sir!”

Sherlock turned it up again and John felt his entire abdomen tighten as he came forcefully across the floor. Sherlock immediately lowered the setting, but only to the second dial. John was gasping and grunting as the pleasure built again, powerful and overwhelming.

“You’re beautiful like this, John. Lost in pleasure and subspace, and only I can give this to you. Tell me, did Lestrade ever bring you off? Put you in subspace?”

John floundered out of subspace, frowning a bit at the interrogation: “No. Never.”

“Good, so good. I wouldn’t have blamed you with the situation you were in, my love, but I’m comforted to know only _I_ own your pleasure.”

John’s happy Sub side cooed and promptly toppled back into subspace. John was still wallowing in _almost_ pleasure and wanted _more_.

“Pleeease,” John begged.

“Ah, yes, that’s right. I’m rewarding you, aren’t I? So sorry. Here you go.”

The pleasure went up to something John might have called unbearable had it not been _pleasure_ , and he screamed until his throat was raw. John felt himself emptying on the floor and a part of his mind decided that it was never going to stop. That he would come for the rest of his life, just like this, trapped in an endless orgasm at Sherlock’s mercy.

_What sweet oblivion_ , John thought, and then promptly fainted.

When John woke up it was to hear Sherlock happily humming Mozart to himself. John blinked up at his lover and smiled as he felt a warm flannel run across his body. Sherlock was giving him a sponge bath. A sponge bath!

“This is more than a reward for not coming when I wanted you to, John. I’m so proud of you for how well you’ve dealt. I know you cut a time or two, but you were under extreme pressure and separated from your spouse and children… I don’t honestly know if I’d have faired as well as you, at least from a biological standpoint. At least I had the kids nearby and a case to follow to remind me I couldn’t let myself curl up on the floor and cry like a child. Lestrade told me how well you did; how you communicated with him when your needs were overwhelming you rather than going into subdrop. I couldn’t be more proud of you, my love.”

Sherlock sat John up and let him lean against his shoulder as he washed down his back. Apparently he was getting an _entire_ sponge bath. John sighed and relaxed into the bed.

“Sleep, my love. I’m going to join you as soon as I check on Lestrade. I left him cleaning up your mess seeing as he saw fit to walk in on us again,” Sherlock chuckled.

“Fucking running gag, that is,” John laughed.

“A bit, yes. Apparently he’s quite the voyeur but refuses to admit it. Mycroft tells me we aren’t the only couple he’s stumbled in on.”

“You’re joking?”

“No, he keeps keys to the flats of all of his pack members. He’s quite the peeping tom.”

“Should we be bothered?” John asked with a light laugh.

“No, I think not. He’s harmless. A decided pervert, but harmless.”

Sherlock kissed John’s nose and then pulled on a dressing gown and headed out into the kitchen. John could hear him ribbing Lestrade who was stammering excuses about how he’d heard John screaming in what he thought was pain. Sherlock reminded him John was a _Sub_ and was supposed to be screaming in pain. John chuckled a bit and drifted off to the sound of them playfully arguing with each other about everything from cases to John to Mycroft.

Peace at last.

 

 

John’s Headspace for this chapter: <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8XnMMiDUqi4>

E-stim Sherlock used on John: <http://www.amazon.com/Mangasm-Electro-Electrosex-Prostate-Stimulator/dp/B008M4MYC8>(This is the closest to what I envisioned that I could find, but I’m not recommending this product – still, it also looks easy to use and describe so I’m running with it. Don’t try e-stim without proper training or at least reading the manual. Never use e-stim if you have a heart condition or a pacemaker, or are a pregnant male or female. Safe. Sane. Consensual.)

[CHAPTER 43](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/68984.html)


	43. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 43

I can’t recall who wanted the heat scene – I believe it was several people – but here you go :D

 

Sherlock was resting up for his Heat; his body lazed in his chair as he downed liquids at an alarming rate. Lestrade and some movers had come over earlier to move out the sofa and their old bed. The desk and its chairs had been rearranged to make a kind of office where the sofa had been while their chairs remained in their previous position. The room was very open and inviting, though still as cluttered as before. The dungeon had been moved up and was currently packed in one corner of their bedroom. They had just taken delivery of a much smaller bed to keep in their old bedroom, which would now be their dungeon. Sherlock’s lab was back in its previous location on the kitchen table as Mycroft refused to have it in his home. Well, now it was the family home, John supposed, but he wasn’t about to be presumptuous and call it that directly.

“How are you feeling, Sherlock?” John asked.

“The same as I was the last three times you asked me.”

“Fine, then?”

“Mmm.”

“Sorry, just nervous I guess.”

“We’ve had several Heats together, John. Your nerves are more than a bit ridiculous.”

“It’s not nerves, really, it’s… I guess its anticipation?”

“The same.”

“No it’s not. Anticipation is excited nervous, nerves are worried nervous.”

“ _Feelings,_ ” Sherlock scoffed.

“You have them too, Mr. Machine,” John chuckled, “Now stop trying to rile me up.”

Sherlock smirked, “Guilty as charged.”

“I love you, you brilliant madman.”

“I… love you, too,” Sherlock muttered, still uncomfortable expressing such things, “my soldier.”

“You know what you could do to relieve my tension?” John suggested with a smirk.

Sherlock’s only response was to raise an eyebrow.

“You can let me sample some of those delicious juices,” John purred, sauntering over in what he hoped was a sexy way. He must have succeeded because Sherlock all but devoured him with his eyes.

“Which juices would you prefer, my Alpha,” Sherlock asked possessively, his rich baritone curling around John’s cock and stroking it teasingly.

Instead of replying John reached out and slid his hand down the front of Sherlock’s trousers and slipped two fingers between his closed thighs to press against his entrance through the fabric. Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked again and then he bounced up onto his feet on the chair cushion before turning about and dropping his trousers and pants in one smooth motion.

John admired his smooth shapely figure for a moment, running hands down sharp hipbones and squeezing his full round buttocks, before separating his cheeks and leaning down to breathe in the sharp musky scent of pre-Heat lube. Sherlock was already moist and would soon tent and become utterly drenched. John loved the taste of Heat lube; it was bitter like a whiskey sour and smooth as oil. He ran his tongue from Sherlock’s hairless bollocks up to his entrance and above then traced back down to tease his sensitive pink pucker. He felt Sherlock twitch and heard him gasp. How was this still so new, so utterly erotic?

He was eagerly thrusting his tongue in and out of Sherlock’s hole when he felt the man begin to tent.

“Mmm, it’s time, Sherlock,” John purred, “Do you want me to fill you up and give you more cubs?”

“Yes!” Sherlock cried out, his voice ragged.

John tugged Sherlock’s pants the rest of the way down and lowered his own, palming his sizable erection. He tested the waters by pressing the tip against Sherlock, but the man wasn’t _quite_ ready yet, and John didn’t want to chaff him; just a few more minutes. John paused there, watching Sherlock’s twitching hole as it began to dilate for him, the muscle drawing back until his rosebud bloomed into a gorgeous flower.

“Oh, gods, you are utterly perfect,” John breathed and then pressed inside his dripping lover with a throaty moan.

Sherlock pressed his hips back, using his chair as leverage shamelessly. He was moaning and eager for more, but still never lost that Dominant streak that made John’s toes curl.

“That’s it, doctor, _fuck me_. Give me that _massive_ Alpha cock!”

“Sherlock!” John panted, hips speeding up as he fell under his lover’s spell once more.

“You can’t resist me, can you John? I’m your _drug_.”

“Oh, fuck yes! I _need_ you Sherlock!”

“ _Breed me_ John!”

“YES!”

John was breathless, fucking Sherlock hard enough to jerk two of the chair legs off of the floor. He had a brief fear of them falling, then decided it was unimportant in comparison to burying himself in that clenching heat. He wanted to feel Sherlock come, and to make him come undone. The Omega was thrusting back as good as John was giving, his muscles clenching along his back. John leaned forward and licked their bonding mark, drawing a moan from the man who was painfully close to completion.

John reached around and took that slender shaft in hand, stroking it firmly twice before squeezing it gently and then reaching down to cup Sherlock’s bollocks. Sherlock swore angrily.

“Stroke me properly, you fool!”

“Mmm,” John groaned, loving it when Sherlock called him names in bed.

He gripped the Omega’s cock and stroked him fast and hard, twisting his wrist on the upstroke the way he loved it and keeping the rhythm just a bit faster than his own thrusting hips. When Sherlock came it was while thrusting his own body backwards dramatically. They chair had all it was good for and tipped backwards, Sherlock landing face first on the carpet behind it, his head nearly colliding with the small bookshelf to the left of the window. The lamp went down with them and _did_ collide with the bookshelf, the lampshade probably worse for wear.

John was undeterred. He shifted his angle and drove straight down into Sherlock’s body, pumping fast and hard with one foot planted on the floor, the other knee on the chair, and both his hands driving Sherlock’s shoulders into the carpet. He couldn’t reach his cock anymore, but he could tell from the way Sherlock clenched that he was almost there. He couldn’t reach his prostate from this angle, but his knot was swelling and that was all it would take.

John gave a hard thrust down, grunting at the effort, and his knot popped past the muscle into Sherlock’s shuddering body. The man let out a strangled cry and his hips jerked as he spilled himself across the back of his chair. John moaned admiringly as the man wriggled beneath him like a strumpet. Sherlock was not to be soft and pliant this time, though, and growled aggressively as he pushed back, demanding more.

“I believe I told you to _fuck me_ soldier!”

“Yes, sir!” John gasped, grinding his knot into Sherlock’s prostate in fast, jerking circles until the man cried out and climaxed again.

John’s knot swelled to the point of near pain before suddenly clenching and John threw his head back and shouted out his orgasm. He flooded Sherlock with his come, moaning the detective’s name as he pulsed inside of him. Sherlock cried out and came again, his hips feebly humping the saturated chair for friction. After several minutes of panting John gripped Sherlock beneath his armpits and hauled him upright. He couldn’t leave the poor man bent practically in half on the floor like that. The Omega was in his own headspace at the moment, barely conscious and content to lean against John as the man steadied them against the windowsill until his knot could go down enough for him to get Sherlock to the bedroom. He glanced nervously out the window and sure enough, across the street in the house to the right of the vacant one which had exploded years ago, was a _very_ happy man stroking his cock and smiling right at John.

“Bloody hell, save me from voyeurs and peeping toms.”

“Piss off Lestrade! He’s _mine_ ,” Sherlock snapped; though he wasn’t really awake at the moment.

John carefully took Sherlock’s weight in one arm and closed the lower half of the curtains with the other before clasping him tightly again. The man across the way gave him the two-finger salute and finished rather dramatically against the window.

“I hope someone was watching him, too,” John snarked.

Sherlock snored and John chuckled a bit. Finally his knot loosened and he scooped the Omega up bridal style and carried him to the bedroom where they had enough supplies to last out their heat. John lay him down in the bed and opened the first bottle of water. He stared down at Sherlock’s flat belly and remembered it swollen with Aiden’s baby bump. He couldn’t wait to see Sherlock round and full again, full of his cubs, and he was fervently hoping for a girl this time. He wanted to see the pretty little frocks Mary would make for her, the lacy hats Mrs. Hudson would knit, and the proud glint in Mycroft’s eye at all that ‘Holmes perfection’ as he called it whenever he looked at the children. Of course, the most rewarding was the sight of Sherlock petting his children’s hair and singing softly as he rocked them to sleep. Nothing topped that. Nothing.

 

So apparently doing a google images search for “sherlock’s chair” yields many bizarre delights. Do give it a go.  
  


[CHAPTER 44](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/69330.html)

 


	44. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 44

This chapter is dedicated to supercurlygirl for her request for more Aiden & pack dynamics. (I haven’t forgotten your other request, still working on that one) Here you go!

IMPORTANT – POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING: A reminder to you readers that subdual markings (similar to hickeys) are NOT sexual in this story. They are a show of dominance and comfort Omega’s and children by letting them know they are marked for protection by an Alpha.

 

John looked up in surprise as he heard his youngest son wailing piteously. Last he’d checked Sherlock and Mycroft had gone out to the park with the kids. They had gone with only Mary as escort, but there was no reason to fear they’d be harmed with just a Beta as company. He hurried to the door but it burst open before John could reach it.

“Take him! TAKE HIM!” Sherlock shouted, and John put his arms out and they were instantly filled with screaming _bleeding_ Aiden, “Don’t just stand there, DO SOMETHING!”

John _was_ doing something; he was trying to figure out where the blood was coming from and how serious it was. He laid Aiden down on their bed but Sherlock was hovering to the point of practically climbing on his back. He smelled Mary in the doorway and called for backup.

“Get him out of here!”

Mary Switched to Dom mode and grabbed Sherlock’s arms in a rather surprisingly practiced hold, hauling him screaming and kicking from the room. For such a small woman, she was rather alarmingly strong, but of course her lower center of gravity was likely working for her in that position. Sherlock was pulled too far back to do much more than kick and put up a fuss, especially with his mind going feral. Mycroft peered in momentarily, but only shut the door behind them both.

With the frantic Omega out of the room John took a look at their son and found the wound was superficial, but was located where his shoulder met the soft tissue of his neck. It looked like a mating mark. In fact it _smelled_ like a mating mark, albeit with none of the less subtle overtones of gender flowing through since Aiden was too young to manifest yet. John pulled out a first aid kit and cleaned the wound up, getting a good look at it and determining it _was_ a bite mark, and put some NewSkin on the wound before putting a large Band-Aid over that. Now that he had determined Aiden was in no danger of bleeding to death, John gathered their screaming son up and carried him back out into the hall. Mycroft and Mary both had Sherlock restrained. Mary challenging him as Dom had caused him to go fully feral and he was screaming incoherently and fighting for all he was worth. John knew the only reason they hadn’t responded to his Dom Voice was because they could smell Aiden’s blood. Their instincts were to protect Aiden, and that included from his mother; though Sherlock wasn’t the threat it worked in their favor that instinct allowed them to restrain him while John (or some other doctor) administered care.

John walked up and pressed their son to Sherlock’s chest. He made eye contact with both Mycroft and Mary and they both nodded. On John’s count of three they both released Sherlock and John bared his neck submissively. Sherlock’s arms came around his son and he held him close for a moment, sniffing him for fresh injuries before shifting him to a hip, grabbing John by the back of his neck, and pulling him in to bite his neck almost savagely. The bite turned to a lick, and the lick to a hungry kiss on John’s lips, and then Sherlock was resting his forehead against John’s as he focused on slowing his breathing down.

“Is he hurt badly?” Sherlock asked, his voice hoarse from all the screaming he’d done.

“No. I’ve cleaned it up to ward off infection. When you’re ready to tell me what happened…”

“Some filthy mongrel _bit_ our son.”

“A… dog did that?” John asked in confusion.

“No, a child. Some ugly little whelp.”

“Ugly? Well… that’s unfortunate,” John replied, worried for Aiden’s happiness. Perhaps it wasn’t a permanent bond. Perhaps Aiden wouldn’t care what he or she looked like.

“Why is he so upset if you’ve healed him?” Sherlock demanded while bouncing his son and trying to distract him with a toy Mary had passed to him.

John diverted, “Sherlock, do you know the child who bit him? Or their parents?”

Sherlock looked up in concern, shaking his head, “Aiden’s played with that boy before, but I’ve never spoken to the mother. Mary has.”

Mary looked worried as she shook her head, “I only know her first name is Cindy. The boy’s name is Teodor; black hair, big brown eyes, and dark skin. He looks Latino.”

“And _ugly_ ,” Sherlock snipped.

John frowned, but Mary was shaking her head behind Sherlock’s back; so _not_ ugly then. Sherlock had an odd way of expressing his protectiveness of their son, but then again if he _knew_ what that mark on Aiden’s neck was, even if it was only on an instinctive level…

“Sherlock, I want you to come into our room and sit on the bed,” John pleaded, tugging on Sherlock’s sleeve.

A glance over showed Mycroft petting a distressed BG’s head with Rupert standing to one side looking aloof. He needed to get Sherlock calm enough to discuss this rationally. He’d need the kids and possibly another Omega along with the smell of their bed. He motioned to Mycroft who hurried to their bedroom ahead of them. When he managed to coax a twitchy Sherlock into the bedroom, the Omega Dom glanced up and saw Mycroft sitting in stocking feet in the center of their bed with his other son and nephew; Sherlock hurriedly kicked off his shoes to join them. John saw a furpile starting up and hovered on the edge while Mycroft and Sherlock nuzzled and scented each other and the children. When they finally lay down with the three kids huddled in the middle and Sherlock grasping Mycroft’s hand tightly, John ventured forward and petted Sherlock’s hair. He leaned forward to supply him with Alpha scent and Sherlock turned his head to breathe it in.

“Do you need Lestrade?”

“Yes,” Sherlock croaked, still holding a sobbing Aiden close to himself.

John glanced into the hall and asked Mary to bring them sippy cups with water for the kids and to phone Lestrade. He then went to hover over Sherlock, rubbing his arms and petting his hair. He walked around the bed and did the same to Mycroft, who arched into his touch and then tugged on his arm a bit; so Mycroft was feeling distressed, too. John leaned down and let Mycroft breath in his scent as well.

“John, something is _wrong_ ,” Sherlock insisted, wrapping both arms around Aiden.

BG was nervous and worried so he rolled over to tug Rupert closer, burying his face in the younger boys chest. Rupert petted BG’s hair and gave him a decidedly superior look. John was convinced that BG was Omega and Rupert an Alpha. Since they weren’t biologically related he worried about how close the two boys were getting, but he’d cross that bridge when it came to it. Most likely Rupert was their pack Alpha, but John worried about what would happen when BG’s instincts started telling him he wasn’t related to Rupert and that he was a potential mate. Of course, he could be wrong and all his worry for nothing. Rupert could be a particularly strong willed Omega or BG a Beta.

“Sherlock, Aiden is going to be fine,” John insisted, trying to sound calm while shouting over the screaming child, “But he has been bonded to that other boy and we need to...”

“He’s a _baby_!”

“Bonding is a chemical process unrelated to sex,” John explained, “Anyone can bond at any age.”

“He’s a _baby!!_ ”

John settled for stroking his Omega’s hair until Lestrade arrived looking much alarmed and practically pushed John out of the way. He leaned over and sniffed at Aiden, then Sherlock, then the other boys and Mycroft. He crawled up on the bed to straddle Sherlock’s hips while the man lay curled on his side around Aiden. He suckled on Sherlock’s neck to calm and subdue him, but he was too tense because of Aiden. Lestrade gently eased the baby from Sherlock’s arms and sucked a small mark onto the un-bandaged side of his neck. The boy went limp and relaxed instantly, small hiccups the only sign he’d been inconsolable a moment before. Lestrade pressed the boy back to Sherlock’s chest and the Omega Dom licked at the mark Lestrade had sucked into the boy’s neck to add his own scent.

Aiden cuddled into Sherlock’s chest and the room took a collective breath. Mary slipped in and passed a sippy cup to John, who passed it to Sherlock, who pressed it to his son’s parched lips. Aiden sucked the water down greedily, thirsty from his time crying and screaming. He whimpered a bit and still looked distressed, but gulped down the water in silence.

“What happened?” Lestrade growled, “Why does my pack child smell _married_.”

“He’s a _baby!_ ” Sherlock hissed.

“He’s been bonded,” John sighed, “I don’t know how. I know it’s possible for children to bond, but I had no idea it was something that could happen accidentally. In several cultures it used to be common to arrange bonding of children in order to promote them breeding at first opportunity, but it’s practically unheard of today. It was considered cruel because they could reach maturity at different times, have been living together as a married, but celibate couple, and then find out they’re not the gender their parents thought. My folks thought I was an Omega and Harry an Alpha. You just can’t always tell.”

“What if they’re both Alphas?” Lestrade asked in alarm.

John felt himself go cold and still, his old fears creeping up on him. If his son were permanently bonded to a male Alpha and was one himself…

“John. John!” Lestrade shook him firmly, “Calm down! We’ll deal with this. If we keep them apart for a week or more the bond will dissolve.”

“Unless they’re Perfect Matches,” Sherlock mentioned softly.

“No…” Lestrade insisted, “If they’re both Alphas they can’t be Perfect Matches.”

“Harry and Molly…” John whispered and then trailed off. Lestrade pulled him close and sucked a mark into his neck. John leaned against him gratefully and then crawled into the bed behind Sherlock. He stroked his son’s hair gently and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek.

“I’m going to call Aiden’s pediatrician,” Lestrade sighed, pulling out his phone, “Anyone knows where this kid who married our little boy is?”

“No,” Sherlock stated. Mycroft shook his head and John buried his face in Sherlock’s curls.

“Fantastic,” Lestrade sighed.

Three days later it was clear that Aiden and his ‘husband’ were a Perfect Match. The boy had been miserable ever since being separated from him and now he was refusing to eat. He looked pale and drawn, but also stubborn and angry. He gave everyone who came near him accusing glares as though they were personally withholding his bondmate.

“How can he miss him when he’s just a baby?” Sherlock demanded of the room at large.

“They have a bond, Sherlock. It’s like being separated from me,” John explained while trying ice cream as a last resort. Aiden still turned his nose up at it.

“Tyder,” Aiden demanded, and pushed the bowl over onto the floor.

“Did he just ask for him by _name?_ ” John asked.

“That’s it. I’m finding that kid,” Sherlock snarled, and stormed off to do exactly that.

An hour later and Sherlock returned with a frantic look on his face.

“John, I can’t locate him. I’ve tried and I can’t find him. There are no birth records with a Teodor born to a Cindy within the correct age group anywhere in Europe! I’ve hacked three different systems! He isn’t adopted, either!”

John stood up and tucked Aiden against his side: “What now?”

“Field work,” Sherlock stated, “We go back to the park and look for them.”

Two days. Two days and Aiden was becoming weaker and weaker. Lestrade had passed a sketch Sherlock had made around of both child and mother to every single person in the Yard and requested anyone in the vicinity of a park to swing by and look for them as well on a regular basis. Sherlock, John, Mycroft, and Mary spent their time going from park to indoor play area to pool to zoo trying to find the little boy who had inadvertently married Aiden. Finally on the third day John spotted a boy resembling Teodor with a different Omega. Knowing full well how an Omega would react to an unfamiliar Alpha approaching them when they were with a child, John texted his entire family and waited impatiently while watching the pair as unobtrusively as he could. They were in a park and the boy was staring listlessly at the other children as though searching for a familiar face. The woman he was with was dark of hair and skin instead of blonde and blue eyed. They both looked Latino, and it occurred to John that this might be their birth mother, that Cindy might have been a family or pack member instead of the child’s Omega mother. Sherlock had apparently never gone near Cindy and it was unlikely that Mary would notice whom the biological parent was.

Finally Sherlock showed up, looking much harried, and glanced around until he spotted the Latina woman and Teodor. He headed straight for Teodor, Aiden limp over his shoulder as though asleep, and dropped to one knee in front of the small boy. John stood and hurried over, unconcerned about approaching now that an Omega was there to introduce him. He was just in time to see Teodor throw his arms over Aiden’s prostrate form and hug him. John smiled despite himself, despite all the nonsense they’d gone through. The Latina woman was smiling and looking relieved.

“I’ve been going spare. He’s been so quiet and withdrawn lately, but the pediatrician said he isn’t sick!” The woman stated, watching as the two boys smiled at each other happily.

Aiden was still weak from lack of food, though, and Sherlock broke out a bottle of milk as though he were an infant. He suckled on it greedily and Teodor put his hand on it as though to help feed him.

John arrived and tapped Sherlock’s shoulder: “Oh! This is Dr. John Watson, my bondmate.”

“Hello, ma’am, it’s a pleasure. Your pediatrician couldn’t tell you what was wrong?” John asked in confusion. Even if the parents and pack had been in denial, the pediatrician should have known what was going on.

“No! Cindy told me that he’d been playing with another boy here, that they’d been having a cute little dominance battle. Then she said one of them screamed and she and the mother separated them. She said the other boy’s mum was furious because Teodor _bit_ him, but that’s just crazy. Teodor knows not to bite.”

“That was us, actually,” John sighed, “Well, Sherlock and Aiden. Ma’am, it wasn’t just a bite. It was a bonding bite. Aiden didn’t bite Teodor back?”

“No! They’re just kids! That’s crazy!” The woman snatched her son up, tugging him away from a wailing Aiden.

Sherlock was on his feet instantly and had used his long legs to his advantage. He was around in front of her instantly and staring her down. She backed up in alarm, sensing the Dom in him and confused by what her senses were telling her.

“Please, Ma’am,” John pleaded, giving her a Sub aura behind her so she wouldn’t feel trapped, “Our boy’s been very sick. Yours has been okay because he wasn’t bit, but ours will die.”

“They’re… they’re a Perfect Match?”

“Yes,” Sherlock stated plainly.

The woman paused, studying Aiden’s tearful reaching arms, her own son’s desperate pleading cries for Aiden, and Sherlock and John’s faces.

“I don’t believe you. You’re nutcases! You don’t even smell right!” She tried to bolt around Sherlock but was cut off by Lestrade who was holding up his warrant card.

“Excuse me, miss, but we’ll need to bring you and your son in.”

“What? We haven’t done anything!”

“I’m here with Sgt. Muller of the Special Victims Unit. Your son assaulted one of my pack members and I’m pressing charges.”

“This is insane!” The woman shouted at them, stomping her foot angrily, “He’s only three! He can’t be brought up on charges! I want my Alpha! Now!”

That brought things to a grinding halt, but perhaps that was what Lestrade was counting on. Once an Omega demanded their Alpha they couldn’t be touched or questioned except to restrain them if they were in danger of harming themselves. The only exception was if they tried to run, in which case the arresting officer had the opportunity to handcuff them only. The woman was not running. She was stubbornly standing still and refusing to do anything besides hold her sobbing child close and glare at them. Lestrade demanded her Alpha’s name three times before turning to Sherlock.

“I’ll have her run through the system. All Omegas are registered, even the immigrants. We’ll figure out who she is and who her Alpha is.”

“Don’t bother. I…” Sherlock started.

“Don’t you dare Dom her! We don’t need more trouble,” Lestrade snapped.

“I _picked her pocket_ while I was re-introducing Aiden to his husband,” Sherlock stated and handed the wallet over to Lestrade who chuckled and rifled through until he had enough information to locate the Alpha.

“Okay, I’ll just give Mr. Jeremy Lafonte a call,” Lestrade replied cheerfully, “Mr. Lafonte? This is Detective Inspector Lestrade… yes, the one from the telly… oh, cheers, yeah; well I owe a lot of it to Sherlock Holmes. He’s quite the genius.”

Sherlock preened and Mrs. Lafonte paled as she realized who was in front of her.

“Listen, Mr. Lafonte, your wife and son are fine, but I’m here with them at the park and we’ve got a bit of a situation…”

The situation was resolved shortly after Mr. Lafonte arrived. Apparently Mrs. Lafonte was no longer Mrs. Lafonte; she was Lucile Jimenez. They had married and had a child together, but then Mr. Lafonte had found his Perfect Match in Cindy and dissolved their bond. They had shared custody of Teodor and Cindy often took him to the park. Lucile had no Alpha to speak of, but Peter Lafonte was not above Doming her into submission once he’d caught a whiff of Aiden and confirmed he smelled bonded. The mark on his neck, Sherlock pointed out, could easily be proved to be Teodor’s.

“It’s illegal to separate Perfect Matches, Mr. Lafonte. I’m sure you understand why,” Lestrade insisted gently.

“Gods, yes,” Peter replied, looking distressed at the idea, “No wonder he’s been so miserable. He might not have been suffering like your poor boy has, but he still missed his bondmate.”

Lucile finally released Teodor who rushed to hug Aiden again and the two boys shared a baby kiss, Aiden basically licking Teodor’s cheek while Teodor giggled and hugged him.

“Does Aiden even have enough teeth to bond with?” John worried, watching Sherlock snuggle both boys onto his lap and pull out a book while Aiden munched on some cereal.

“Those teeth always exist, they’re sheathed, is all,” Sherlock explained, “He’d just have to bring them out to bond. From what I’ve read most kids will do so only if they meet their Perfect Match. Otherwise, the teeth can be stimulated to pull out when the child is… mildly electrocuted.”

John gave Sherlock a horrified look: “I hadn’t realized that was being done to force kids to bond. That’s… wow.”

“Yes, well, thankfully it isn’t done much anymore. Let’s just be grateful this all worked out, and our son has the added bonus of already being bonded to his Perfect Match. They’ll be quite happy together someday,” Sherlock smiled proudly.

“Bit romantic, I suppose,” John smiled, watching Aiden hold Teodor’s hand as they stared at the pictures in the book.

XXX

It took a few days before Aiden recovered from his convalescence. They met up with Teodor every day to give the boys the contact they needed. Mycroft had happily invited Cindy, Peter, and Teodor to have tea at his home each day, though he wasn’t usually present himself. John met them if Sherlock was busy with a case or off being Sherlock. He loved being the boy’s nanny and happily encouraged them all to play together.

“I’ll happily watch Teodor, too,” John insisted one day, “I’ve always wanted a huge family.”

Teodor took that moment to push Aiden firmly onto his bottom. John stood up to intercept the boys, but Cindy stopped him.

“No don’t! It’s a dominance fight,” She insisted.

John had seen Omegas allow their children to fight at the parks before, but on other occasions they broke them up instantly. He was apparently unable to tell the difference between bullying and dominance fights.

“How do you tell?” He asked as Aiden hauled himself to his feet and pushed Teodor back.

“They aren’t fighting over anything, like a toy or snack, and they aren’t angry. Look at their faces. They’re _focused._ ”

They _were_ focused. Aiden’s little eyes were narrowed and he was studying every one of Teodor’s movements. John was surprised how agile the smaller boy was when he was this intent. He ducked a push and dropped low to shove Teodor instead. Teodor toppled down and stayed there without protesting. Aiden pounced on him and gave his neck a nip. John thought it was just a subdual mark at first, until Teodor started crying and his hand came away wet with blood.

“Oh, Aiden, you have to lick his neck. Give kiss! Kiss Teodor’s neck!” John coaxed while Cindy struggled to restrain her urge to rush in and pull Teodor away.

Aiden looked confused, his instincts apparently jarred by the sound of Teodor crying. He leaned forward and mouthed at Teodor’s neck, his saliva slowing the blood flow.

“I sarry. I sarry Tydor,” Aiden apologized, thinking himself in trouble and looking tearful.

“It’s okay, honey,” Cindy consoled while John pressed a kiss to his boys head.

Rupert took that moment to wander over, glance at both boys standing against their parents’ sides, grab them each by an arm, and tug them forcefully down to the ground. John gaped at his uncharacteristic behavior, glanced at Cindy who looked surprised but not concerned, and then looked back down at the boys. Teodor seemed unbothered but Aiden looked rebellious. He didn’t start a fight with Rupert, but he clearly wanted to. Instead he picked himself up, grabbed Teodor’s hand and tugged on it until the boy stood, and then pulled him over to play with a set of toys as far from Rupert as possible. Rupert raised an eyebrow, lifted his chin arrogantly, and walked off to read a book by himself in the corner.

“Well, guess who’s a pack Alpha!” Cindy laughed, “Your children are very… have very strong personalities.”

“You don’t know the half,” John sighed, but was grateful it was over with.

Aiden and Teodor were properly established husbands and their bond would settle enough over time that they would be able to be apart for a few days without being distressed. Lucile was coming around to the situation and had already had a cheerful conversation with John (and a screaming match with Sherlock) about the kids and their future. She thought Teodor was an Omega, and that greatly relaxed John, especially after his display today.

BG had watched this entire scene unfold from only a few feet away and gave John that inscrutable look he got sometimes. John asked him what he was thinking and the boy stared at him intently for a moment before commenting.

“I’d like potatoes, Daddy.”

“Okay, potatoes it is. Mashed or fried?”

“Fried.”

John chortled a bit and got up to make the kids another round of food. They seemed to eat nonstop some days and today was one of those days.

“Cindy?” John asked before he left, “Where do you think BG is in this little hierarchy?”

“I thought Beta, but I’m never sure. He’s very smart.”

John smiled and walked away, not sure how to feel about that. If BG were a Beta he’d never get the instincts that would inform him that he wasn’t biologically related to Rupert, and therefore Sherlock. If he were a Beta he’d also never have a Perfect Match or even be guaranteed a permanent spouse. Then again, John knew the statistics were not in their favor. Most children born were Betas, and Aiden was already clearly either Omega or Alpha; judging by his behavior, he was an Alpha. That surprised John since he’d been so _smart_ , but then he might just be projecting Sherlock’s personality traits onto their son. Still, only time would tell.

[CHAPTER 45](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/69593.html)


	45. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 45

This chapter is dedicated to CleverBast… but I don’t think it’s quite what you wanted. It kinda came out a bit silly… sorry!

 

It had been over two months since Sherlock’s last heat and he had shown no signs of nesting. John had sighed and resigned himself to waiting for their next heat to get his Omega with child when Sherlock staggered downstairs one afternoon (there were no cases or e-mails) with a miserable look on his face. John glanced up, rolled his eyes, and resigned himself to a day with ‘bored Sherlock’.

“Joooohn. I’m siiiick,” Sherlock whinged and threw himself into a chair.

“Oh, poor baby,” John snickered, and stood to head over to him, feeling a bit bad for being relieved that he was sick rather than bored.

Before he could reach his sprawled out husband Lestrade walked by and gave Sherlock a double take. Then he grinned at John and did a little jig before pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple and one to John’s in passing. John shoved at him, annoyed by the Alphanizing gesture, but Lestrade only chuckled and pointed at Sherlock.

“What?” John asked, but knew the answer a few seconds later as he reached Sherlock’s side, “Sherlock, you’re pregnant!”

“What?”

“You’re pregnant! You smell pregnant!”

“That’s… I’m not nesting,” Sherlock argued uselessly, then turned green and bolted for the loo.

John hovered outside the bathroom door, trying not to act as embarrassingly giddy as he felt.

“I’m not nesting!” Sherlock shouted, and retched again.

“Some don’t right away, especially when it’s not their first.”

“John I… I’m not pregnant.”

“Of course you are! You smell pregnant!” John crowed.

He heard Sherlock running water and when the door opened he could smell the excessive amount of mouthwash he’d used. He didn’t look happy, but he also didn’t look as though it were due to being sick.

“What’s wrong?” John asked nervously.

“John, I’m not pregnant. I can’t be.”

“Yes, yes you can. We had a heat and now you smell pregnant.”

“It’s over three weeks late for me to start smelling pregnant, John. I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” Sherlock hurried past him and John felt a pit form in his stomach.

“Sherlock, what aren’t you telling me?”

“I bled.”

“You what?”

“I bled John!” Sherlock snapped at him angrily, “Three days after our heat I bled!”

“Why didn’t you tell me? How did I not know about this?”

“I dealt with it. You were busy with Aiden and that whole bonding incident. I wasn’t going to add to our troubles.”

“Sherlock, this is serious. You’re supposed to be taking better care of yourself! We’re going to the gyno. Now.”

“I’m _not_ …”

“You _are_ and clearly something is wrong! I’m pulling Alpha on this, Sherlock. Doctor. Now. Don’t make me call Lestrade in.”

Mycroft was in the office that day so they hopped in one of his larger cars and dropped all three kids off, explaining the issue. Mycroft looked quite concerned but had a pressing conference to go to shortly that would be disastrous to skip. Anthea would watch the kids. John gave each of them a hurried kiss and had the driver take them to the A&E.

Sherlock was fussed over at the A&E and ushered from one specialist to another and one test to another. They took blood and urine samples, held a Doppler to his belly, then ushered him into an ultrasound that John was pointedly excluded from.

“There’s a heartbeat,” Sherlock told John as they wheeled him back out. John clasped his hand in relief but Sherlock looked troubled.

“What is it?”

“They won’t tell me, but something is worrying the technician. Something to do with the heartbeat.”

The doctor joined them finally and closed the door to give them some privacy.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I must say I’m a huge fan of…”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry?”

“You should be, now tell me what’s wrong with my baby.”

“Ah…” The doctor glanced aside to John who raised an eyebrow to show he wasn’t going to side with the bloke, “We need to have you back in a week to run another set of tests. Your hormone levels aren’t quite where we’d expect. In fact, I’d have expected to find you had a missed miscarriage judging by your explanation, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. You said your bleeding was not excessive?”

“No, but I attributed that to the off-schedule heat.”

“A sound hypothesis, yes,” The doctor agreed, and then pulled out a small grainy image. John recognized it as an ultrasound and leaned forward in a mixture of excitement and fear.

“What we have here is a bit difficult to view because of the size, which is far smaller than ten weeks along. That may be due to the fact there are multiples…”

“ _Multiples_?” John asked in alarm, “How many multiples?”

“There appear to be two, but it is very early on and sometimes one may terminate in high risk pregnancies like this one.”

“High risk?” Sherlock echoed, looking furious.

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Holmes. We’re going to give you two options. Due to medical necessity you can legally abort one fetus in order to keep the other alive-”

“No,” John and Sherlock both stated firmly.

“-Or we can put you on bed rest for the rest of your pregnancy.”

John and Sherlock exchanged looks of horror.

“Are there no other options?” John pleaded. 

The doctor looked confused, “Bed rest is hardly a death sentence. Unpleasant, certainly but…”

“You have no idea,” John whispered, staring at the man in fear.

“Gods, I’m already bored,” Sherlock stated, looking alarmed, “What am I going to do with myself for nearly eight months?”

“Drive me mad,” John groaned, rubbing his face in misery.

John was already on edge by the time Lestrade arrived home from his rugby game with the rest of the Yarders.

“You should’ve been there, John!” Lestrade crowed, trailing mud and looking battered, “Homicide Vs Theft? They had no shot in… what’s wrong?”

John crossed the hall, grabbed Lestrade by the shirtfront and punctuated each word with a firm shake.

“Sherlock. Is. On. Bed. Rest.”

“Oh.”

“Didn’t you get my texts?”

“Phone broke. Forgot to take it out of my pocket.”

John gave him another shake for good measure before releasing him as John’s name was wailed through the vast expanse of Mycroft’s mansion home.

“Oh, dear gods,” Lestrade whispered, looking upwards in horror.

“I’ve moved a telly into his room, given him both laptops, bought him twelve different science and psychology magazines and subscribed to them all, bought him a video game system, and encouraged him to take up knitting.”

“Knitting?”

“I WAS DESPERATE!” John tried to grab Lestrade again, but the man caught his wrists and easily spun him into a hold.

“You really don’t want to earn yourself a punishment, John,” Lestrade warned, his voice filled with Dominance.

John whimpered and bared his neck, but Lestrade only nuzzled it and released him.

“I’ll find him some cold cases and get Mary and Mrs. Hudson to spell you for the next eight months. Anything else?”

“Twins. Possibly.”

“Well, this should be fun,” Lestrade grinned.

It was, of course, a nightmare. Sherlock was a pain the entire pregnancy, BG and Aiden missed their mother and were not comforted by spending time sitting still in a bed with him. John was sexually deprived and emotionally drained. It was agonizing watching Sherlock’s belly swell to alarming proportions while being unable to do much about it. He still managed to worship it every night, but it wasn’t the same when he had to bring himself off afterwards. Sherlock was also highly demanding in his longing for repeated oral sex. He wanted to be fisted, too, but the doctor forbade it.

John cared for most of Sherlock’s medical needs, drawing blood and taking it and a urine sample to the lab at Bart’s weekly to check his hormone levels. The twins grew well, but remained smaller than they were supposed to be throughout the pregnancy. It was at their second to last ultrasound- a monthly occurrence- that the doctor grinned and asked if they’d like to know the possible genders.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied eagerly. They’d refused previous times because Sherlock was terrified of becoming too attached should one or both of them not survive, but they were close to his due date now and Sherlock was gaining hope.

“Female,” The doctor announced.

“You… you’re joking!” John laughed, “Completely female? Not Alpha females? Both of them?”

“Yes, the both of them. Not a single willy in sight.”

“Girls! We’re having girls!” John crowed, and smiled at Sherlock’s moist eyes.

“Well statistically it was time for females, but I’m surprised they’re completely female,” Sherlock sniffed, trying to look tough still.

“You fantastic, brilliant, sexy man!” John cheered, kissing him repeatedly.

“Speaking of which, can we have sex yet?”

“No sex, sorry,” The doctor stated, looking over the technicians shoulder, “And we’ll need to see you biweekly from now on. We’re also going to start steroid shots to try and promote their growth.”

John went home cheerful and worshiped Sherlock’s body with a fanaticism bordering on unhealthy. When he finally emerged from the bedroom Lestrade quipped that he’d been tempted to go in and check for survivors.

“I thought Sherlock might have developed a new craving!”

“Ha ha, just my blood he’s after,” John laughed, checking the marks on his neck in the mirror over the fireplace.

“Is that _healthy_ ,” Lestrade worried.

“Blood as a craving? The doctors were alarmed but said it wasn’t a problem so long as I don’t catch an STD or something. They did prescribe me iron pills, though. Can’t have me getting anemic.”

“Well that’s good, I suppose.”

Two months later and Sherlock was taken off bed rest. He was huge and couldn’t walk without pain, his hips and sciatic nerve aggravating him horribly. He hobbled around the mansion before collapsing into a couch and refusing to budge until the babies were born. John asked him if he was ready to nest right there and Sherlock glared at him.

“I’m still not having a nesting urge.”

“That’s… odd.”

“A bit, yes.”

“Do you want a blanket?”

“Didn’t I just say I’m not having a nesting urge?”

“Yes, but… okay.”

The waiting began and Sherlock was even surlier than before. He hobbled around and snarled at everyone, reducing BG to tears at one point. John was furious and Lestrade told him he was lucky he was pregnant or he’d give him the punishment of a lifetime. Sherlock toddled after BG in remorse, calling out that he’d read him an extra story to apologize.

BG came downstairs an hour later and tugged on John’s shirt.

“Daddy, Mummy wants me to tell you he wet my bed.”

“Oh, bother,” John sighed, ignoring Lestrade’s snickering.

“Mummy’s too big to wet the bed,” BG stated firmly as he followed John to the linen closet, “Aiden says so, too. You know what I think?”

“What’s that, sweety?” John asked.

“I think Mummy is having the baby and that’s all the water coming out.”

John froze for a moment, then dropped the linens he’d been gathering and bolted for the bedroom. Sherlock was breathing heavily and his face was drenched in perspiration. The sweet smell of amniotic fluids filled the room.

“Only a week and three days late,” Sherlock gasped, “Thank gods. I was going barmy waiting for them.”

“We’re going to hospital.”

“No, I’m having them here.”

“What? On BG’s bed? Hospital. Now.”

“ **No!”**

“Lestrade!!!” John called.

“Damn it John!”

They got to the hospital and Sherlock snarled and growled at all and sundry while they tried to get monitors on him. They finally managed to get a needle into a vein and he slipped into peaceful unconsciousness.

“Oh, thank gods,” John breathed and Lestrade patted his shoulder comfortingly.

The monitors revealed the babies to be alive and well, but the staff were concerned at how little Sherlock had dilated.

“His body is still reacting as though he isn’t pregnant in some ways. We may need to go to c-section.”

John groaned and flopped down in a chair to wait. Sherlock regained consciousness some hours later and was loud enough to bring the nurses in without bothering with the call button. They calmed him down with John’s help this time and he let them examine him again. Still no dilation so John cautiously broached the subject of cesarean with Sherlock. He blinked and shrugged, apparently not caring now that he’d been calmed.

“Get them out of me,” Sherlock ordered the nearest doctor, who winced at the Dominance.

“Sherlock, we talked about this,” John soothed, rubbing the aggravated man’s back, “You can’t Dom the doctors. It’s not right.”

“Bugger what’s right. Get. Them. Out.”

John wanted to watch the surgery, but Sherlock held both his hands and ordered him to maintain eye contact the entire time. John’s eyes were watering from staring by the time the soft peels of newborn cries filled the surgery. John’s eyes filled with real tears then, and he watched as Sherlock’s did as well. The poor man was to be denied a bit longer, however, as the epidural meant he was too shaky to hold his newborns. John cut their cords and swaddled them once the doctors had finished checking them over.

“They’re beautiful, Sher,” John called, sniffling at the sight of his lovely little girls, “They look like you. They’ve even got a little curl each, right on the top of their heads!”

Sherlock didn’t reply, he was crying a bit and still unable to move. The babies were stowed in a wheeled basinet and John pushed them both out the door after Sherlock’s retreating form as the nurses moved him to recovery. Once there, John held them each up in turn and Sherlock smiled at his new cubs.

Once his arms had stopped shaking, John carefully helped Sherlock position his daughters on a nipple each and snapped a shot of him nursing them both simultaneously. Sherlock was beaming from ear to ear, his green eyes vibrant from crying. The girls weighed only two and a half kilograms, so they’d be staying at the hospital for a bit, but their lungs were healthy and they were eating well.

“If I produce even half the milk I did with Aiden they’ll be double the weight in no time,” Sherlock stated proudly.

Lestrade and Mycroft brought BG, Aiden, Rupert, and even Teodor. The children stared in awe at the tiny new babies, but Sherlock refused to even let BG hold them just yet. Lestrade got a lick in to scent them each, but Sherlock growled when he tried to pick them up. Only John was allowed to handle them; Sherlock had already thrown a bedpan at a nurse and proven his aim was nothing to be trifled with.

John slept in the fold out chair in the room with Sherlock, waking to pass him a baby whenever they cried and nuzzling his little girls contentedly. They barely had anything bought for them, though Mycroft had quietly gotten the room across the hall from BG and Aiden’s room ready. It was a pale shade of pink with little yellow flowers in a very tasteful border. There were two white cribs, but not much else. John hadn’t told Sherlock. Even up until the end he’d been half convinced the little girls wouldn’t make it.

“Sherlock,” John asked during their third feeding of the night as Sherlock was drifting in and out of sleep, “Sher, what are we naming them.”

“Constance.”

John swallowed hard. No wonder this pregnancy had been so awful for Sherlock. John was starting to feel awful for losing his temper all those times.

“Sher, that was your first baby girl. We need new names for them… and more than one.”

“Oh… I’ll think about it.”

[CHAPTER 46](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/69636.html)

 


	46. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 46

I had a total of 69 suggestions for names (yeah, I laughed too) though there were multiples in that list. This proved more difficult than I expected, but the names have finally been chosen. First, the honorable mentions: Prudence, Desdemona, Hope, Imogen, Katherine, Lydia, Patience, Temperance. These all had multiple suggestions. And some of my personal favorites that I just didn’t feel fit the girls: Moibeal, Siobhan, Hypatia, and Cassandra. I think I’ll have to get some more babies born to use some of these up ;)

#### This chapter is dedicated to tsula_usdi, downdeepinside, Jennyrosity, and morningstar88.

 

 

“Amelia and Verity,” Sherlock stated after nudging John awake in the middle of the night.

John blinked and schooled his response _very_ carefully. For one it was three in the morning. For another it had taken a week for him to choose. For the third and final caveat, Sherlock had been horrifically hormonal.

“They’re lovely, Sherlock. May I ask what they mean, sir?” John asked, being as submissive as possible.

“Work and Truth.”

“Oh… well then, that’s brilliant!” John beamed, “What about their middle names?”

Sherlock scowled and John winced. Moody Sherlock was unpleasant to be around.

“You won’t like them.”

“I’m sure I’ll love them, just like I love you,” John whispered, turning the charm up to diabetic coma and pressing kisses to Sherlock’s hand.

“Harry and Molly,” Sherlock stated firmly.

John stiffened in the bed and found himself utterly unable to breath.

“You don’t like them,” Sherlock stated, but this time he looked tearful.

“I… I… You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

John almost suggested naming both girls with the middle name of Constance, but he was certain that would be far worse for Sherlock than this was for John… or Mycroft… or Lestrade…

“Which to which?”

“Amelia Harriet and Verity Margaret.”

“Molly is short for Margaret?”

“Yes, apparently. Margaret Hooper according to her records.”

“Well I guess that makes sense. Harry was always hard work and Molly was honest to a fault up until the end. I swear if any of us had just asked her…”

“I think the same thing sometimes. That she was just waiting for someone to notice and rescue her,” Sherlock replied sadly.

“We really cocked that up, didn’t we?”

“You’re assuming it was ours to fix. It was their life to live or die.”

“I guess,” John sighed, still missing them both terribly, “Thank you.”

“For the names?”

“Yes. It beats Lestrade calling them Thing One and Thing Two.”

“He’s been _what?!_ ” Sherlock tried to sit up in a huff, but his stomach was still tender.

“Easy Sherlock! He wasn’t serious!”

“Thing One and Thing… My baby girls are not _things_!”

“It’s from Dr. Seuss!”

“I don’t care if it’s from Doctor Who! My baby girls are not _things!”_

“Did you see the season finale I recorded for you?” John asked hopefully.

“Of what? Doctor Who?”

“Uh, huh.”

“I had it all figured out from the door, of course…” Sherlock started, clearly ready to launch into his explanation for who and what Clara was and how he’d known, but was cut off by a piteous wail from the monitor in the girl’s room.

“I’ll get them, love, you stay here and relax a bit more,” John soothed at Sherlock’s frustrated look.

They had found that Sherlock tended to be more comfortable feeding the twins while lying down, where with Aiden he hadn’t been able to feed him anywhere comfortably besides the rocking chair. John lifted one twin at a time, carrying them as though they were glass despite their third/fourth child status. They were just so much _smaller_ than BG or Aiden had been, though BG had been close. They’d lost weight and then re-gained it already, but it seemed to amount for nothing.

Once Sherlock had one happily suckling baby, John went back for the next and found someone in the nursery. He growled before he registered the Omega scent, sniffed in confusion, and then headed the rest of the way in to find Mycroft cuddling his youngest daughter to his bare chest.

“Mycroft… what’s going on?” John asked nervously. If he were a Dom he’d simply be able to take the baby back, but he wasn’t sure if his Alpha status over Mycroft was strong enough to wrench a baby from his arms if he was actually trying to steal her as John thought.

“She’s hungry,” Mycroft stated, gently lowering himself down into the rocking chair and pressing the squalling baby to his teat.

She latched on and John stared in a mixture of horror and curiosity. He knew Omegas often lactated just from being around children, and he knew familial Omegas often co-fed, but barren Omegas – which Mycroft was – were usually shunned and kept away from infants the way non-familial Alphas were. Sherlock had shown no intention to chase Mycroft away from the twins so John hadn’t tried to either. His instincts weren’t screaming at him to stop this, either.

John gave up on the decision and went back to Sherlock.

“Where’s Verity?” Sherlock asked.

_Well that settles the who’s who question. Eldest is Amelia; youngest is Verity._

“Ah…”

“John. Where. Is. My. Daughter.”

“MycroftisbreastfeedingherandIdon’tknowifIshouldtakeherbackorifIevencan.”

“Slower, if you please,” Sherlock snarled.

“Mycroft is breastfeeding her…”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so? Do you think I should pump? I’m asking from a medical standpoint, obviously. I don’t want my milk drying up because my body thinks it isn’t being used. Mycroft might not always be around to feed one.”

“Ah, yes. Yes, you should pump when Amelia’s done feeding.”

“Fetch the pump, then.”

John rummaged through their closet until he found it and set it up while Sherlock switched sides to get himself evened out. John’s eyes locked onto the quick spray of milk that escaped his abandoned teat and his mouth watered. He _really_ had to deal with this fixation on feeding from his husband. It wasn’t healthy in the least… well, not for his hungry twin girls.

“Don’t even think about it,” Sherlock scolded, “I haven’t got a supply started up.”

John sighed and went back to making sure the pump was working properly. Once his daughter had been fed and burped John walked her back to the nursery. Mycroft was still feeding Verity.

“Her name is Verity, by the way,” John stated conversationally to fill up the awkwardness of his brother-in-law breastfeeding his daughter.

“Truth. A lovely name,” Mycroft replied, yawning a bit.

“You… you bugged their rooms?”

Mycroft scoffed, “Rupert’s monitor picks up on your frequency. I thought about changing it, but then I started lactating so I decided to just head over and lend a hand.”

John was fairly certain he was lying.

“Well… Sherlock is pumping so his supply doesn’t drop.”

“Mhmm,” Mycroft yawned, “We come from a long line of good lactators; I doubt he’ll have issues.”

Verity popped off and let out a wail.

“Me on the other hand,” Mycroft sighed and stood up, “Perhaps having him pump wasn’t such a good idea after all. I’m not making enough.”

Mycroft headed into the bedroom and John followed after seeing Amelia was comfortable. When he got there Sherlock was just popping Verity on and explaining he’d been waiting to see if this happened.

“It’s been a while since you fed anyone, My, you can’t expect to be ready for a hungry newborn,” Sherlock consoled.

“I suppose,” Mycroft sighed, snuggling up to Sherlock’s back and watching him feed Verity.

“Are you going to be emotional about this?”

“Says the man who’s been biting everyone’s head off all week. No. I am fine. However…”

“However? If you’re going to ask me to keep one of my girls…”

“No! No, goodness, nothing like that.”

“Well, what then?”

Mycroft snuggled closer to Sherlock pressing his face to the man’s neck and holding him gently around the middle. John suddenly felt as though he were intruding, but he had no idea where else to go. The girl’s room? The boy’s? The loo?

“Sherlock I… Thank you.”

“For?”

“Staying here. I know you figured out what I was going through. How I felt after Venezuela.”

“Well, you were making such a very large effort not to be a pain in the… bum,” Sherlock amended when he recalled the baby in the room.

“I can’t tell you what it’s like. What I felt and thought up in that tree. You and John are so important to me. I _need_ you both… and the children of course.”

“Is Lestrade aware of the depth of your insecurity?”

“Yes. He had offered to take another wife or husband to give me more family connections, but it simply isn’t the same. Then you suggested this.”

“Mmm, well we’re here now.”

“Yes.”

John slipped out into the hall but a soft voice called him back.

“Won’t you lie with us?” Mycroft asked.

John hesitated a moment, then climbed in behind Mycroft and cuddled close to him, breathing in his scent.

_Omega_. _Family._

“Love you,” John muttered into Mycroft’s soft shoulder.

“The same,” Mycroft replied, not nearly as stiffly as John had expected.

“Verity is done. You can both stop simpering on me now.”

John chuckled while Mycroft postured. He walked Verity back to her room, re-swaddled her, and laid her in her little bassinet before kissing both of his daughters on their tiny noses and heading back to bed. Mycroft was gone when he arrived and Sherlock snickered about how upset the aristocrat had gotten at his comment.

“Honestly, he’s the one _snuggling_ with me.”

“Sherlock, your brother _needs_ you. He went through a horrible ordeal. So did we, for that matter. We need them, too.”

Sherlock gave him an odd look for a moment, as though considering, and then nodded firmly. They kissed briefly and cuddled into bed.

“Goodnight, love,” John whispered.

“Goodnight, my Alpha.”

[CHAPTER 47](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/70044.html)


	47. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 47

Dear Greybastian:

Thank you for giving me the excuse to write this. ;D This has been rattling around in my skull for ages.

Love,

Vincent Meoblinn

 

John knew they were plotting something. He’d seen them conversing together and then giving him lustful looks. That they weren’t even being subtle about it told him that they _wanted_ him to know that they were discussing something filthy about him. After that the train of logic followed so many rabbit holes that John just ended up dancing on edge for days. The days stretched into weeks and John was taut as a bowstring. John had originally thought Lestrade was involved because Sherlock was still recovering from bed rest with twins and a c-section, but Sherlock would be recovered from his surgery soon.

He was becoming skittish. He knew well that Sherlock and Lestrade both had interests that he didn’t, and that, since most of them weren’t on his hard-stops list, it was up to them if they wanted to tie him up and employ them. The only thing off the table was actual rape-play, and that was really only _partially_ off the table since John had stated he was interested in it during that whole blackmailing mess. Of course, they knew he’d been under duress then. Didn’t they?

John was checking over his shoulder every few steps at home, now. He was only relaxed around the children. He was sleeping well enough with Sherlock wrapped around him, but waking up sudden and alert as he had in Afghanistan. The thing was, he wasn’t _frightened_ , just on edge and painfully aroused. It had been almost a year since he’d had actual sex with Sherlock, not that they hadn’t been intimate in other ways, of course. Sherlock wasn’t denying him orgasms, but he also wasn’t sexually available the way he usually was – especially the sadistic ways - and John was missing the intimacy. The psychological tactics they were using on him were effective in the extreme, and Sherlock was well aware because he was regularly walking up and checking John’s pulse or reactions. The man checked his reactions by suddenly lunging at him as though to grab him but then stopping suddenly. The first few times he’d done it John had jumped up and backed away, going into a defensive fighting stance and then feeling awful as Sherlock gave him a disappointed look and walked away. As their teasing continued he stopped retreating and instead froze, panting and aroused with his head tipped to the side in submission and his eyes wide as saucers.

Yet they still didn’t initiate the encounter that John now wanted desperately. John was now past the point of caring if it was rape play, if Lestrade would be involved intimately or not, or if he would even wake _up_ again the next day. He needed it the way he needed air. Months without much more than Lestrade’s casual Doming had left John twitchy for pain, but Lestrade couldn’t provide that without John getting off on it and Sherlock had drawn the line at John orgasming under Lestrade’s brutal hand. So all he’d had during Sherlock’s convalescence was extra-strict enforced rules and the occasional punishment- usually when he got so tense he lost his temper.

John decided begging was the ticket. They were being obvious about planning a scene together so they probably wanted him to ask for it. Dom’s loved begging.

John chose a day when Lestrade and Sherlock were relaxing in the sitting room after the twins had _just_ been fed and would be down for a couple of hours. Mycroft hadn’t helped during the last feed and Sherlock had milk stored, so conceivably even if the girls woke up they wouldn’t be interrupted. Mycroft could handle it. Then he slipped out of his chair and crawled over to where the two men were seated on hands and knees and waited for them to acknowledge him. Sherlock frowned a bit, but Lestrade grinned.

“Speak,” Sherlock ordered with a casual wave of his hand.

“I wish to give myself to you completely, Sirs,” John replied.

“Both of us?” Sherlock asked, his eyebrow rising warningly.

Oops. Not what they had planned?

“To you, always,” John amended, looking coyly up at Sherlock through his eyelashes.

“And to Lestrade?”

“… In any way you wish.”

“I _wish_ for you to get me some juice and then sit back down and shut up,” Sherlock snarked.

John flinched, got to his feet and got a drink for Sherlock before tossing himself down in his chair and sulking. He must not have learned as well from Sherlock as he’d thought because no one paid him any mind, though Mycroft had given him a sympathetic glance at the bar. After the two Dom’s went to bed John cornered Mycroft on his way to the kitchen to fix himself a snack in preparation of taking his turn feeding the twins that night.

“Do _you_ know what they’re planning?”

“Of course,” Mycroft snorted, giving John an insulted look.

“I meant, did they tell you. I figured you’d deduced it.”

“What’s the difference?” Mycroft asked, still looking personally offended.

“If they _told_ you they might mean for you to tell _me_ , or _hint_ something to me.”

“Doubtful, but if it gives you any comfort Gregory did ask my permission to play with you at some unforeseen time.”

“He asked _your_ permission?” John asked in shock. Mycroft was the _Sub!_

“We are in an open relationship, John,” Mycroft scolded, “Communication is essential. In order to avoid jealousy Gregory always asks if I’m all right with him playing with someone. It has nothing to do with our D/s relationship and everything to do with preserving our marriage.”

“I keep forgetting that. I just figured he was messing with me as pack Alpha. I never see him bring anyone home.”

“He’s done so several times. Are you really that unobservant? Honestly, what does my brother see in you,” Mycroft scoffed before gathering up his food and heading to the table.

John joined him uninvited.

“Sherlock put a ban on him bringing me to orgasm, but there’s a hell of a lot in between that can be done. Assuming Sherlock hasn’t lifted that ban.”

“I doubt Sherlock would. He’s fiercely jealous of you. I doubt Gregory will even be involved in the capacity your likely limited imagination is conceiving.”

“Do you _need_ to be insulting?”

“Yes.”

John stood in a huff and stormed off, ignoring Mycroft’s chuckle. When he reached the hallway leading from the large eat-in kitchen he found Sherlock and Lestrade had planted themselves on either side of the hallway, not quite barring his way but certainly making his passage narrower. John had every intention of walking between them both with head held high and shoulders back. His knees disagreed. Sherlock and Lestrade both gave him a smoldering glare and the word ‘ _Dominant’_ flitted through his head once before he was on his hands and knees in the hallway, panting and hardening. They watched him for a moment while he whimpered and waited, so anxious that he was squeezing his eyes shut, and then they simply turned as one and walked away the second he glanced up.

John wanted to cry. Instead he levered himself up onto just his knees, tugged his trousers down, and jerked off in the hall in utter defiance of their actions.

_There,_ he thought as he glared down at the large puddles of semen on the hall floor.

“At least put a ‘wet floor’ sign up,” Mycroft sighed as he walked around John and his mess on his way to bed.

John flushed in embarrassment. He couldn’t leave that there; they had toddlers in the house! Then he smirked and took several photos of it with his phone, sent them to Lestrade and Sherlock, and then fetched a mop to clean it up.

_There._

John’s phone pinged.

**You shoot better with your gun - GL**

John sighed and rolled his eyes.The phone went off again.

**Clean that up, then come upstairs and suck me off – SH**

John groaned and sped up his scrubbing. He had a feeling this wasn’t even _close_ to over.

He was right.

Sherlock went back to ‘work’ the next day, meaning he hounded Lestrade all the way to Scotland Yard demanding cases. John went along, sadly leaving Mycroft to care for the babies. There were simply too many to drag to Sherlock’s cases now. He’d be home with them often enough, but while Sherlock was actively on a case they’d be with Mycroft in his office turned playroom, which also had a gated play area outside where they could play with Mycroft’s co-workers children- weather permitting.

Once they reached the Yard John found out his torture was indeed far from over as Lestrade and Sherlock started picking times seemingly at random to bring John to his knees and leave him unsatisfied. They had to be coordinated, however, because John saw no sign occur between them. The first time happened in front of Dimmock, who buckled and went down, too. John gave him a pitying look as the man looked up at them in confusion and a bit of fear. Dimmock was a rather weak willed Dom, the sort who would always be bottom rung and hand any lovers he had over to his pack Alpha regularly. In fact, John suspected that was where one of Lestrade’s paramours were located – Dimmock’s flat.

“Sorry, that was for me,” John sighed as Sherlock and Lestrade smirked at them and then turned unapologetically back to the file they had been perusing.

“For you? Why?” Dimmock asked in confusion.

“They’re _toying_ with me,” John sighed, offering the confused Alpha a hand up.

“Here?”

“I’ve got a feeling nowhere is off limits.”

“What did you _do_?” Dimmock asked.

“Married Sherlock,” John deadpanned.

Dimmock nodded in sympathy and then made an excuse to get as _far as possible_ from his pack Alpha.

John’s prediction proved correct again as they stood at a crime scene two hours later. Sherlock had already dismissed it as dull but was standing around to annoy Donovan, who was giving as good as she got. They were in the middle of a heated screaming match when Sherlock suddenly turned around and faced John. Lestrade was on the other side of the room, almost behind John, but he could _feel_ the Alpha Dom’s eyes on him and his knees hit the ground with a tortured groan. Sally edged around Sherlock and gave John a look of horror mixed with a bit of excitement.

“Do this often?” She asked, almost in a whisper. She went unanswered for several minutes as they let him squirm under their glare.

When they broke contact, and John was finally able to take a few deep breaths without blood pulsing faster into his cock, Sherlock turned back around to face Sally once more.

“No, we don’t do that often. This is something we’re prepping John for.”

“For what, may I ask?” Sally asked, a surprising amount of respect in her voice.

“Oh, it’s a surprise. I’m sure Lestrade will fill you in afterwards, but you may have a bit to wait.”

John groaned in agony and gave the hanged man in the center of the room a jealous look.

_Lucky bastard._

XXXXXXXXXX

Four days. Four days of that utter _bullshit_ and John was snarling and snapping at everyone. To his surprise he got no punishments and few reprimands for it. Only when the kids were present was he free of stress and the need to be on his knees in front of his pack Alpha and husband. Once they went to bed the stress in John’s body went up to chaotic and his leg started jigging as he sat in the chair waiting for Mycroft and Sherlock to return from their bedtime routine with the kids.

“You okay?” Lestrade asked with real concern on his face.

John’s entire body froze like a deer in headlights. Once he realized Lestrade wasn’t going to eye-fuck him again he sagged a bit and then started jigging his leg again.

“No. No, I’m not okay. I’ve never even been this tense with orgasm denial. I’m coming nightly and I’m still fucking _on edge_. When the _hell_ is this going to be over?”

Lestrade sighed, “You’ve got me. Sherlock’s got it planned out and frankly I think he’s taken it too far.”

“Wh… what?” John asked in horror. It wasn’t organized? They were in disagreement about this?

“You want me to take the edge off? I could toss you over my knee before the O’s get back,” Lestrade asked, grinning wickedly.

John was on his feet in an instant, but recoiled immediately after.

“I can’t. I’ll come. Fuck, I’d come after _one_ slap. I’m that fucking _tense_ ,” John told him with a note of horror in his voice.

“Can’t then, Sherlock’s very specific. No getting off with me.”

John groaned and sank back into the chair, rubbing at his face.

Sherlock walked into the room and everything happened at once. John simply snapped and launched himself at his husband, snarling like a wild thing. Lestrade stood up with a startled shout of his name, but John ignored him. Sherlock gave John a shocked look and the two of them toppled into the hallway with John tearing at his clothing. Buttons flew in all directions. There was no way in hell Sherlock’s Dom would allow a direct challenge, so it all went to pot after that. They struggled wildly for a moment, John having the upper hand, then Sherlock gave John a glare and he went limp as a noodle. Sherlock flipped him over and bit his neck savagely to remind him to keep his place. John cried out and felt his knot start to swell, he flexed his hips, but Sherlock had him too pinned.

“Sherlock, please. Oh, gods, _please!_ I can’t take it anymore! PLEASE!”

“I have a mind to leave you sleeping on the couch! How _dare_ you challenge me?!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please! My Alpha couldn’t take it anymore!”

“Bullshit!”

“I _need_ you, Sherlock! It’s been ages!”

“You came last night.”

“By your _hand_. That’s not the same. Please!”

Sherlock scoffed and stood, leaving John aroused and frustrated on the floor.

“ **Go upstairs and shower. Do not touch yourself,”** Sherlock ordered, “You’ll get nothing tonight because of your behavior.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade snapped, anger clear on his face, “This has gone on long enough! Your plan isn’t working.”

“ **Go,”** Sherlock ordered, and John turned and marched upstairs as the shouting below rose behind him.

He stripped and showered: scrubbing himself thoroughly as he usually did, but hurriedly. He wanted to lie down in bed and put this whole horrible day behind him. The bathroom door creaked and John tensed in excitement.

_Lestrade got through to him!_ John realized, as the shower doors were pulled open.

John had been in the middle of shampooing his hair, now he leaned forward and rinsed it out so he wouldn’t get soap in his eyes when Sherlock started up. Some types of pain just _weren’t_ fun. Strong arms came around him and John gasped, choking on water and sputtering a moment. Those were _not_ Sherlock’s arms.

“Hello gorgeous,” Lestrade whispered.

John wiped backwards on his forehead to get soap, water, and hair out of his way and looked over his shoulder in shock. Lestrade leaned forward and his sizable erection prodded John’s hip. John whimpered at the power behind this man. He ran his department and their home with an iron fist and nothing could make John feel safer than when he was in the room. Even Sherlock didn’t have that effect on him- at least not to that extent. That was what made an Alpha into a pack Alpha. They _owned_ the entire pack, not just their own Omegas. Even other Alphas bowed to them.

Lestrade took hold of John’s hand and tugged him from the shower. He shivered in the cold but his growing erection was unaffected. John moved towards the bed, but Lestrade tugged him out the door and back downstairs, his eyes and smile promising an end to the weeks of taunting. Once they reached the first floor landing Lestrade started walking backwards, grabbing a rope from a nearby table he started fashioning a [rope harness](http://i.imgur.com/lSDgD.jpg) around John, one strand on either side of his heavy bollocks meeting between his arsecheeks. John was panting for it. Sherlock loved rope play and John had developed quite the taste for it. It was like dancing with a third partner… well, fourth now that Lestrade had somehow become involved.

The harness was complete and Lestrade had grabbed some more rope from another decorative table and was winding it around his hands in suggestive patterns. John was staring at it hungrily eager to get his fix, when they passed the sitting room and John realized something was horribly wrong.

Sherlock was face down on the ground in the sitting room and he groaned loudly as they passed. John’s head swung towards that sound, knowing it wasn’t a pleasurable one. A needle on the ground beside him told John all he needed to know and he made to bolt towards him. The ropes Lestrade had been playing with came down, two loops going around his torso and pinning his upper arms to his sides while two more wrapped around his throat. One strong tug and John knew he was helpless. He could move his lower arms, but just as he reached back to try a move on Lestrade the last loop of the ropes came around both his wrists and were tugged into mock-handcuffs. They were quickly secured to his rope body harness, freeing Lestrade’s hands completely while leaving John utterly helpless.

“I couldn’t get him to change his mind,” Lestrade whispered into John’s ear, “He’ll be fine. I have to take care of my pack, yeah?”

“Not like this,” John gasped, the rope on his throat limiting how loud he could get.

“Shhh, I’ve got rights, yeah? As pack Alpha. Look at you; you’re not even fighting me properly. Instinct.”

“Sherlock…”

“Is going to sleep right through this. You’ll thank me later. He will, too. I won’t let him sabotage your relationship again.”

Lestrade dragged John backwards down another flight of stairs and was unfairly able to predict whenever John made an attempt to throw him off balance. He countered it easily and then dragged John down another flight of stairs.

_The sub-basement! Mycroft’s dungeon!_

John was pushed face down over a [short topped sawhorse](http://www.bdsm-gear.com/thumb/horseshorttopblk.jpg) and a belt came around his waist and was quickly buckled. His arms were now strapped firmly to his sides. The rope around his neck was tight, but not choking him anymore as Lestrade pulled a few spots to loosen it. Then he unwound the rope in some places, budging John up when needed, and used the trailing ends to tie his thighs tightly together. John was left kneeling on the sawhorse’s padded knee rest with enough room in between for his cock bob freely in the air.

As though reading his mind Lestrade stroked a handful of lubricant along John’s sensitive cock. John snarled and writhed.

“Let me go!” He demanded.

“No,” Lestrade said, firm and calm.

“I’m Sherlock’s Sub! He won’t forgive you for this. You’re not allowed to make me come!” Then panic set in as he realized he was tied up and bent over, his vulnerable parts presented to _an Alpha!_ “You can’t! I’ll die!”

“Shhhh…” Lestrade whispered soothingly, “I won’t be penetrating you, John. There’s a fucking rope in the way, yeah? Haven’t you and Sherlock ever done intercrural? No? Pity, it’s fantastic. That’s why your legs are tied so tightly.”

John whimpered as Lestrade started lubing up his thighs as well, moaning as he did so.

“Your thighs are so tight, so muscular. I’m going to love fucking your strong, tan legs, John.”

John was leaking pre-come despite himself. He was furious with his rebellious body for being aroused and he wanted _Sherlock!_

At that moment he heard a _thunk_ , a grunt, and then the unmistakable sound of a body dropping to the ground. John looked over his shoulder in time to see Sherlock dragging an unconscious Lestrade away from him and propping him against the wall to their right. Sherlock straightened and John got a look at the baton in his hand before he tossed it aside, grabbed a whip from the nearby basket of ‘goodies’ that Lestrade must have had laid out, and descended on John in pure fury.

“Did you like that? Were you begging for it?” Sherlock demanded, his face red with fury.

“What? No! No! I didn’t agree to this… OW!”

The whip snapped down on John’s lower back and he jumped at the pain, but his body was well restrained and the horse barely rocked.

“That’s why you’re in a rope harness?” The whip came down again and John whimpered as his cock throbbed eagerly, “Last I checked they required quite a bit of cooperation, John.”

“No… it… OH GODS!”

John screamed, writhing as the whip cracked down on him twice more. He was used to warming up with milder toys first. Hell, Sherlockrarely went for anything as painful as a four-foot signal whip! John felt something trickling down his thigh and wondered if it were water, sweat, or blood. He didn’t feel like skin had been broken, but Sherlock was pissed and he was halfway to subspace so perhaps his judgment was off.

“Admit it! Admit you wanted him, you _slut!_ ”

“No!”

_Crack!_

“Yes! No! I meant _NO_! I didn’t want him! I want you! I want you to whip me more!”

“Oh, you want this, do you?” Sherlock purred, coiling the whip and trailing it across his damaged flesh.

“Yeeeees,” John moaned, “I need you, Sherlock, please hurt me!”

“Beg me more and I’ll consider it.”

“Please hurt me! Break my skin! Make me scream! Please take me apart and put me back together again! I need you! I need to give myself to you!”

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

Sherlock walked around to John’s front where he was sobbing and moaning, his cheek pressed against the sawhorse top. John raised his head when Sherlock gently touched his chin with two fingers and stared up at his Dom.

“ **Come for me** ,” Sherlock ordered, and gave him the full force of his Dominating presence as he had been for the last four days.

John came screaming, completely untouched and with nothing squeezing knot; he emptied himself between the legs of the sawhorse, jerking a bit at the last minute and driving himself further wild by stimulating himself with the friction against the (thankfully smooth) bottom. He was so close. He could come again just from this!

Sherlock circled around and slid his hard cock between John’s lubricated thighs and moaned as he fucked them fast and hard. John whimpered and then gasped as a short [rubber flogger](http://fc04.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2011/312/0/7/a_rubber_flogger_experiment_by_tupali-d4fhycr.jpg) came down sharply across his shoulders. Sherlock started a punishing pace, bringing the flogger down diagonally across John’s shoulders with every thrust in; he switched angles every other time so John’s shoulders were equally red by the time Sherlock groaned and stilled, flexing his hips a bit as he spurted between John’s thighs.

“Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease,” John whimpered, keeping the mantra going. He was close and _needed_ to come again.

Instead Sherlock untied his legs and then undid the buckle from around his torso. John felt the ropes tugged on and he was pulled backwards to his feet, choking a bit as the ropes around his throat nearly cut off his air. Sherlock had a bullwhip in his hand this time and he ordered John to remain standing as he pulled the whip back.

_Shit! That thing can break bones!_

“I swear to you Sherlock, I wasn’t…”

_Crack!_

“ **Run!** ” Sherlock ordered and John took off across the room with Sherlock snapping the long whip after him, a wicked grin on his face as it snaked out and caught him around the legs and back. John caught a glance of red smeared across one leg, but the pain was exhilarating. His heart was pounding in his chest and his breath was coming in sharp, panting gasps.

Sherlock barely had to take many steps, the whip was so long and there was only so much room in the cross-shaped dungeon. John’s arms were still bound to his sides so he couldn’t easily get any of the four doors open. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to; gods only knew what Mycroft kept in his dungeon. John, oddly enough, was getting calmer as he yelped and ran about the room. Sherlock was aiming perfectly. He was making no mistakes. He had even pulled back sharply – cracking the whip in the air instead of on his flesh – when a sudden twist of John’s would have brought it down on his face. For all his rage Sherlock still loved him and wouldn’t disfigure him. If he could just diffuse the situation completely! Or… did he want to? Gods, this was hot as hell! He was still achingly hard and Sherlock was literally dripping anal lubrication onto the floor. He was wet enough to be on heat! 

John allowed himself to be herded into one section of the plus-shaped dungeon– though he really didn’t have much choice- and was soon being forced into a sex chair via a series of short, threatening snaps of the whip to either side of his feet.

“Dance, bitch, dance! Now **sit!** ”

Sherlock rolled up the whip when John sat down – dripping with sweat, cum, and lubricant – and calmly picked up the basket again. He placed it directly in front of John and he swallowed hard at its contents. Sherlock began locking him into the chair and John didn’t bother to struggle. The man could drop him to his knees with a look, why run? Besides, he no longer wanted to. He wanted _more_.

“You see what he would have used on you? Did you really want that? To push what we do from soft to hard? I can be rough with you, John,” Sherlock growled, tugging the Sub’s hair and pulling his head back to stare up at him, “I can make you _scream_ for mercy.”

“Yeah?” John challenged, “Do it, then.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed and he moved in front of John swiftly before pulling a hand back and slapping him hard across the face. John gasped, his head thrown to one side. The hand came whistling back and struck him from the other side. John cried out and then moaned appreciatively. He shifted on the sex chair, checking his range of motion. He had more than in the horse, but he was still secure. Add to that the fact there was a hole in the bottom of the chair so Sherlock had full access to all of John’s body despite him being seated.

“I’m going to make sure you _never_ look at another Dominant again,” Sherlock growled.

John whimpered as Sherlock pulled out a pair of leather vampire gloves and slid one of them onto his long, long fingers… and they fit? Those had to be custom.

_Wait. What the fuck?!_

John’s eyes shot across the room the second Sherlock moved to the side and saw Lestrade sitting where he’d been propped… with his hand in his trousers and his pupils blown with lust.

_This is it! This is the scene they prepared for me! I’m so fucking_ blind _!_

Sherlock frowned when he saw that John had figured it out, but decided to keep on with it anyway. The element of danger might have dropped if Sherlock hadn’t walked into the nearest room and emerged with a [fucking machine](http://www.mylovemachine.com/images/ktm/new-bc.jpg).

No. Not a fucking _machine_. A _fucking_ machine.

The clear [glass icicle-dildo](http://www.bedroomjoys.com/uploaded/thumbnails/icicles-glass-anal-beads_15417_700x700.jpg) Sherlock slid out of a bucket of ice water was made up of increasingly larger round beads. He slid some lubricant on it to stop it from sticking to any of John’s bits and then made sure it was secure on the post of the machine, glanced beneath John to make sure everything was lined up properly, then slid it beneath him, secured it to the floor via four clamps (from the sound of it) and slowly turned a crank that lifted it up until it started pressing into his arse. Icy cold in John’s warmest place caused him to break out into goose bumps immediately. He shivered all over and there was absolutely no give. That was when he panicked.

“Sherlock! Wait! Yellow! Fuck!”

Sherlock gave John a raised eyebrow and continued to slowly penetrate him. John tried to squirm away from the toy, but there wasn’t enough give in that direction and it was slowly popping through the first ring of muscles.

“This isn’t safe! You can’t use glass dildos on sex machines! I’ll be ripped apart!”

“I made this especially for you, John,” Sherlock whispered, leaning in and pressing kisses to his jaw line, “Don’t you like my present?”

“It. Is. Not. Safe!”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock scolded, then tightened his restraints until John was utterly immobile, “So long as you don’t move.”

Sherlock clicked the toy on and John’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as the beads rubbed slowly past his prostate over and over again until he was gasping and crying out. The movement was slow instead of fast and pounding, which was likely the element of ‘safe’ Sherlock had mentioned. That didn’t stop him from feeling thoroughly fucked as the toy slowly moved deeper via a dial in Sherlock’s hand. Once John was taking most of the toy into his body Sherlock walked forward and began to trail the vampire gloves across John’s body, letting them catch on his hairs and in nooks. John was swearing like a soldier, his cock aching and his knot swollen. As Sherlock passed John again he stared hungrily down at Sherlock’s soaked arse and decided begging was definitely an option.

“Please fuck yourself on me! Please! I need your body! Sherlock, it’s been so _long_!”

Sherlock smiled and snatched an anal prep toy out of the basket. He put one leg up on top of John’s thigh and used his gloveless hand to slide it in and out while John moaned and his cock leaked pre-come all over Sherlock’s calf. When Sherlock was ready he simply turned around and slid down John’s long shaft until he was almost seated in his lap. John moaned. The dildo was warming up and he was becoming more aware of it as it stimulated him to his core. Sherlock was slowly sliding back up, his body adjusting to John’s size.

“How does this feel _new_?” Sherlock panted, then let himself drop.

John screamed as Sherlock’s heat enveloped his knot and came violently. Sherlock wasn’t more than a second behind him his back arching and his breathe coming in quick pants. The vampire glove dug into John’s arm where Sherlock was gripping him. A moment later and Sherlock was gyrating his hips as he chased another orgasm. When Sherlock’s head turned to the side John pressed his lips to his and there was a moment of absolute intimacy in which nothing existed except Sherlock’s lips on his. Then Sherlock gasped and John moaned and the toy hummed beneath him and he was so _close_.

“Sherlock, oh, gods, you brilliant, wonderful, mad, sexy, powerful man!”

“John!”

Sherlock gripped his cock with his gloveless hand and gave John’s leg a slap with the vampire-gloved hand.

John toppled into subspace, his head falling back against the curved wooden neck-rest, which was likely meant to secure someone’s head in place rather than to let a Sub rest against it. John didn’t require restraints to keep his head in that position. He couldn’t have lifted it if he’d tried. It weighed at _least_ two stone. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock crying out and moaning in bliss. He felt his lovers channel clench around his knot and groaned as his orgasm shook his body. It was all ethereal.

John floated for what felt like ages, his mind slowly playing images through his mind of various pleasurable things; books he’d read, shows he’d seen, even a desert he’d eaten that had been out-of-this-world delicious. When he came back down he could hear muffled moans and cries along with the sharp crack of what sounded like a riding crop. It took him a moment to wonder who was having sex nearby when he recalled that Lestrade had been in the room with himself and… _Sherlock!_

John’s eyes flew open and found Sherlock sitting cross-legged in a chair opposite him, legs crossed and dressed in his favorite housecoat. He smiled slowly as John came round. John blinked at him in confusion and noted that he was untied with a blanket draped over his otherwise naked body. Sherlock was smoking a slim v-cig and looking smug as hell.

“You fell asleep,” Sherlock chortled, “I wanted to leave before _they_ ,” a nod over his shoulder, “started up, but I couldn’t leave you in here alone and Lestrade was… anxious to get Mycroft into the saddle.”

John turned that around for a moment and then asked the only question possible under those circumstances: “A _literal_ saddle?”

As though in answer to his question Lestrade shouted something suitably filthy and equestrian related from the room ahead and to John’s left. The crack of the riding crop echoed after and Sherlock grimaced.

“Please tell me you’re ready to leave?”

“Ah, yes.”

[CHAPTER 48](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/70327.html)


	48. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 48

For dkwilliams, a request for a case.

John was upstairs playing with the kids when he heard the bell of 221B Baker Street pulled and the very familiar tread of his own pack Alpha on the steps. Placing BG in charge of the other children for his absence, John secured the gate and headed down to where Lestrade was pacing in their office- formerly their sitting room- with an agitated look upon his face.

“Good, you’re both here. She might need a doctor,” Lestrade worried.

“Who might?” John asked in concern.

“One of Lestrade’s Subs is missing,” Sherlock informed quietly, his brows lowered, “He was just telling me the circumstances.”

“She was being courted,” Lestrade told John, not ceasing his worried pacing, “Her future Alpha contacted me, worried because he hadn’t been able to reach her. Alice was sick some few weeks ago, so I didn’t think anything of it, but I went by to see if she was alright anyway.”

“She’s an Omega?”

“Yes, but when I got to the house three days ago they refused to let me in. I could see Alice at the window, but she never looked back even though I shouted over and again. I thought it might be a mannequin or something, but then she moved. She seemed to be laughing, appeared perfectly happy. Something isn’t right. I just know it. Alice would never avoid me and her parents know I’m her pack Alpha. They wouldn’t keep her away from me.”

“Why isn’t her father her pack Alpha?”

“She refused to tell me, but I had a feeling it had to do with her financials,” Lestrade said with a sigh, “I looked in on them- illegally obviously- and found her bank account being drafted regularly by her father. Seems her mother left all the money to her in the event her father re-married, but he didn’t find out about that stipend in her will until after he’d already married again. The woman he’s with now is apparently his Perfect Match, so there’s no way to divorce and keep the money himself.”

“I see,” John stated as Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, “He needs her not to marry in order to keep his greedy paws on her money!”

“Exactly,” Lestrade replied, his voice tense.

“We’ll need to get her out of there. As her pack Alpha you can legally claim her as a guardian, but will Mycroft allow it?” Sherlock questioned.

“Yes, he and I have spoken already,” Lestrade nodded with a fond smile for his bondmate, “I’ll be turning her over to a proper Alpha, but I need to _get_ to her first.”

“Then it seems the simplest solution,” John interjected in confusion, “Is to go over there with your police force, knock on the door with a Guardianship Warrant, and say ‘may I have my Omega, please’.”

Lestrade and Sherlock both looked at John as though he were stupid, “I’m guessing I missed something while upstairs?”

“Lestrade hasn’t actually gotten to the part where that method failed, but really it’s a bit obvious that it occurred and did so- otherwise we wouldn’t be here,” Sherlock pointed out scathingly.

John winced, “Sorry, do continue.”

“When we showed up with the Warrant they claimed she wasn’t in residence. Said she had left for America the night before. We demanded to search the place, stating the Omega Unlawful Abuse and Imprisonment Act-“

“They aren’t actually breeding her!” John exclaimed in horror.

“They’re keeping her from breeding,” Sherlock sighed, “The British government considers it the same thing so the law still applies. Do shut up, John.”

John nodded and fell silent, trying not to sulk. Through the nearby monitor they could hear Rupert giving order to BG: so much for leaving BG in charge. So far the orders were simple ‘get me my bunny’ commands, but it could easily get out of hand. John kept an ear cocked for trouble.

“We searched the house from top to bottom and found _nothing_ ,” Lestrade continued in anger, “Not a damn thing! I wanted to go in there at night, to see if I could snoop around without the servants hovering and find her that way, but they keep a half-starved mastiff guarding the doors.”

“I see,” Sherlock stated, “The location?”

“The Copper Beeches. You’ve heard of it?”

“I’ve seen it before. Rather lovely old Victorian building, lots of woods abutting the property. They own the field?”

“Yes, they grow tobacco and sell it locally. Old family with old money, though not lots of it. They’re smart and keep it in the family, even if when their only children are Omegas, which they’ve been producing regularly for generations.”

“My, my,” Sherlock stated, his eyebrows rising, “She’d be an invaluable asset if she’s likely to produce more Omegas.”

“Precisely,” Lestrade nodded, “I need her out and breeding. Out pack has you, Mycroft, and only two other breeding Omegas. Mycroft is dry, Salina is mateless, Apple hasn’t kept a pregnancy yet, and- no offense- you can’t keep on spitting out babies forever.”

“I already missed my last heat, I’m likely done,” Sherlock informed the way one would about the weather.

Lestrade winced, “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice. Are you okay?”

“I feel no distress; I have many beautiful children, I’m content. I was going to offer to carry one of Mycroft’s eggs for you, but the time never seemed right to bring it up.”

Lestrade got a far away look in his eyes, then gave his head a shake, “Later. Will you help?”

“Of course, how could I refuse my pack Alpha?” Sherlock pretended to flirt. Lestrade laughed, but it sounded forced. He was clearly distracted.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock and John left their gaggle of children with Mycroft and took a cab out to the Copper Beeches in order to be less noticed. John noticed Sherlock got increasingly nervous the farther they got from home.

“It’s okay, Sherlock, they’ll be fine. We told them we might be out past nightfall; they’re in good hands with Mycroft. The twins are mostly weaned anyway,” John soothed gently, slipping his hand into Sherlock’s.

“It isn’t that, though I do detest being so far from them. It’s the _countryside_. I hate it. Cities are much safer for their occupants,” Sherlock replied, squeezing John’s hand before bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

John licked his lips, wondering how someone like Sherlock could have something so completely backwards.

“Sherlock, statistically the city has far more crime than the countryside,” John informed gently.

Lestrade snorted and rolled his eyes. Apparently he’d had this conversation with Sherlock already.

“Statistics can only calculate _known_ data… well reliable statistics can only calculate known data. Subjective statistics is a study best left in science fiction in my opinion.”

“I think you’ve lost me,” John stated when Sherlock made no effort to continue his odd explanation.

“Look at the gaps between houses, John. They are isolated and crimes can occur with impunity. These quant homesteads you see fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, founded upon experience which is it’s own form of statistical evidence, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”

“Well, thank you for making picket fences horrifying,” John sulked.

“But it’s _obvious_ , John. The pressure of public opinion can do in the city what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile that the scream of a tortured soul, or the thud of a drunkard’s blow, does not garner outrage amongst the neighbors; and then the whole machinery of justice is only a mobile phone call away, and there is only a step between the crime and the Yard. But look at these lonely houses, each with it’s own garden and high shrubbery, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which might go on, from year to year, in such places, and none the wiser.”

“Who do you think the laughing woman in the window was?” John asked, deciding a change of subject was overdue.

“I have seven possible ideas, but not enough data to form a solid conjecture.”

“Mm.”

John glanced at Lestrade who was smirking at them both; he rolled his eyes, then glanced down at John and Sherlock’s clasped hands and smiled warmly. John grinned. His relationship with Sherlock was stronger and better than ever and Lestrade was thrilled for them. He had made no overt gestures or requests to join them for a scene again. It seemed that once he’d played that fantasy out Sherlock had discarded it as he did so many odd experiments. John wasn’t sorry, he didn’t fault Lestrade for being polyamorous, but one man was enough for him. Still, it had been fun.

They arrived at the house and Sherlock began skulking about as was his wont while John kept an eye out for danger and Lestrade once more marched up to the door to demand Alice be turned over to him. While John was keeping an eye on both his energetic Omega and his pack Alpha, a little boy darted out the door between the legs of a very fat man. Someone tried to follow and was abruptly shoved back. Lestrade started shouting and John and Sherlock both ran down the path towards them.

“I knew it! I knew that wasn’t Alice I saw in the window! Who the fuck is that and where is Alice?!” Lestrade was shouting at the fat man and making an attempt to shove his way into the house.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had snatched the running child up in an attempt to keep him from harm. The results had John darting back to save him from a five-year-old boy!The child had turned on Sherlock violently and was biting him without any sign of stopping. John reached the boy and started prying his mouth free, alarmed to see he’d drawn blood. John heard the large Alpha at the same time he smelled him, and turned to head off what was likely an angry father only to see Lestrade tackle him and pin him down, snarling all the while about ‘Alice’.

“Not another of my Omegas you sick fuck! Call of your cub!”

“Jephro! Let him go!” The fat Alpha shouted.

John stepped aside and the brat fled back, scrambling over and trampling Lestrade and his own father, before running into the house while laughing madly. John set about to examining Sherlock’s wounded arm.

“My gods, he really got you!” John gasped in horror. The brat had bit Sherlock on the wrist and had come frighteningly close to severing the vein, “You’re going to need stitches!”

“Wicked child,” Sherlock muttered, but the tone was curious rather than angry and when John glanced up he saw Sherlock was looking into the house. He looked up in time to see the boy beating his shoe against the window.

“What’s he doing?”

“Killing bugs, I imagine.”

Lestrade had let the huffing fat Alpha up and was glaring at him narrowly.

“You’ve got questions to answer,” Lestrade growled, “Starting with why you have an Alice look alike in your house!”

“You won’t make a whore of my daughter you disgusting pimp!”

“Watch your tongue!” Lestrade barked.

“You watch yours! With all the mouths you stick it in, it’s small wonder you haven’t contracted the AIDS!”

“What’s he going on about?” Sherlock asked Lestrade.

“He’s annoyed I’m not monogamous,” Lestrade snarked, “Where’s Alice? This is her choice, not yours. You’ve no right to keep her from an Alpha.”

“I’ve every right to keep her from a _married_ one!” The man snapped, then turned and huffed back into the house.

John turned to Sherlock to see what was going on and saw that he was watching the child again. The wee thing had slipped out of the house via the window and was slowly sneaking up on a squirrel with a stick in his hand. He was apparently planning on braining it.

“That’s not normal childhood behavior, is it?” John asked worriedly.

“No, it’s not,” Sherlock replied with a frown.

XXXXXXXXX

“You heard him,” Lestrade snarled, pacing their little hotel room anxiously, “They’re keeping her away from me. We have to _do_ something.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock replied calmly from his spot on the bed.

“So why the hell did we _leave?_ ” Lestrade demanded angrily.

“Aside from the fact John was determined to get me someplace sanitary to stitch up my arm?” He replied blandly, “Well, there’s also the little fact that you lied to me.”

Lestrade froze, then sighed and sank down in a nearby chair, “I was going to tell you the truth eventually.”

“Before or after she moved in and started bearing your cubs?” Sherlock hissed angrily, his eyes narrowed.  
  
“Wait, wait,” John interrupted, “The Omega’s for _him_?”

“Yes, John. Lestrade intends to breed her.”

“I had no idea you’d want to carry Mycroft’s eggs,” Lestrade sighed, “She’s a homosexual and doesn’t want the stigma brought down on her family. She agreed to bed me during her heats for breeding purposes. She wouldn’t be living with us. She has enough money coming to her she can be off on her own, and I don’t want Mycroft having to contend with a second wife and all that.”

“Meanwhile you have no problem cuckolding my brother while lying to me about it. Is she pregnant already?”

“No, I’ve not touched her,” Lestrade frowned, “And I’m not cuckolding him, the fuck uses that word anyway?”

“I do, because it’s relevant. You aren’t just topping your Omegas anymore, you’re looking to breed them!”

“My Omega is barren, it’s my right.”

“It’s an _outdated_ _instinct_ , and a pointless exercise when you already have a son who has shown all signs of being an Alpha and a pile of unfertilized eggs just in case.”

“This isn’t about spreading my seed around, Sherlock, she wants to have kids and I’m her pack Alpha. I’ve got a duty to perform!”

“Oh, yes, and spending a heat with an Omega is such a burden,” Sherlock sneered.

“This is none of your damn business,” Lestrade growled.

“Did you hear that, John?” Sherlock asked, “It’s none of our business! We can go home to our kids now…”

“Damn it, Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted, jumping to his feet, “I need your help! She’s being held captive!”

“I’m not your Omega,” Sherlock stated firmly.

John and Lestrade both stared at him blankly and then looked at each other in confusion.

“What are you talking about?” Lestrade finally asked.

“When Jethro Junior was taking a bite out of my arm you tackled Mr. Rucastle and snarled about me being your Omega. I am _not_ your Omega.”

“Are you breaking from the pack?”

“No.”

“Are you living under my roof?”

“Yes.”

“Are you my mates brother?”

“Yes.”

“Am I your pack Alpha?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re my Omega.”

“I am _John’s_ Omega.”

“Fucking hell, Sherlock, even _you’re_ not antisocial enough to not know what I mean!”

“I want reassurance, Lestrade, or I will break from the pack.”

“Reassurance of what?” Lestrade asked throwing his arms up in frustration, “You _are_ my Omega, Sherlock. I don’t know what you want!”

“Your word you won’t be trying to breed _me_.”

“You bloody offered!”

“Not what I meant.”

John’s eyes widened in alarm as he caught on to Sherlock’s meaning; he was worried Lestrade as getting too deep into his instincts and would try to bed him!

“I didn’t during your Mock Heat, did I? If I didn’t try it then, I won’t try it later. I’m not after your tail, Sherlock. You’ve got a capable Alpha, she hasn’t.”

“Would you let her have an Omega?”

“What?”

“You said she was a homosexual. Would you stand in the way of her being with another Omega?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I want to know what’s going on in your head mucking about with an Omega who literally _can’t_ find you attractive.”

“I’m not going to bother her outside of Heat, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed.

“What about your children?”

“They’ll be in my life, obviously.”

“You’ll flaunt them in front of Mycroft?”

“No. He’s welcome to be in their lives, but I won’t belittle the man I love. Sherlock, even if we hadn’t had Rupert, even if Mycroft had been barren from the start, I love him. I’ll always love him. He’ll always be my Perfect Match. Alice finds someone else I’ll leave her be. Simple as that.”

Sherlock nodded calmly.

“The house is unsafe,” Sherlock stated, “We’ll get her out tonight.”  
  


[CHAPTER 49](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/70545.html)

 


	49. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 49

John’s job was simple. Put an illegal silencer on the gun and shoot the poor abused- and quite ferocious- mastiff. Done.

Except there was no way in hell he was letting his Omega go in alone, so he waited a few seconds, scaled the wall, and jumped down to join them. Sherlock gave him an infuriated look- one that promised hours of punishment later- and promptly ignored his presence. Lestrade only smirked at him; as an Alpha he understood. They crept up to the house and Sherlock picked the lock, letting them in as silently as a breeze in the nearby beech trees. They split up, having been given a basic layout from Lestrade; from room to room they moved, searching for a sign of the missing girl.

John took the first floor, Lestrade the second (that was where the family slept, so his familiarity was essential, and Sherlock the third. If they hadn’t found her by the time Sherlock finished searching the third floor, he would search the second, first, and finally the cellar. Sherlock was certain the cellar was not where the girl was being kept, based on his use of a mastiff, but allowed that she might have been moved because of their interruption.

When John found nothing he slipped upstairs, met Lestrade in the hall, and together they climbed the final stairs to the third story. There they found a bookshelf moved and a secret room revealed. Within was Sherlock, pearing about in curiosity.

“Here is where they kept her, but our sparrow has flown the nest,” Sherlock pointed to a skylight that was hanging open.

“Then she’s already free,” Lestrade breathed in relief, “Come on. Let’s find her before she gets herself in some fresh trouble.”

The sound of a gun cocking made them all slowly turn towards the door.

“For such a very large man, you move with surprising silence,” Sherlock complimented, his face showing how impressed he was, “I can usually hear someone moving about from a flight away.”

“I all but grew up in this house,” Rucastle replied, “I know every creaking nail and warped board. You, on the other hand, move around like a bull in a china shop.”

John and Sherlock both glared at Lestrade who blushed furiously.

“Where is she,” Rucastle demanded, “What have you done with my daughter you Hedonist!”

“Gone before we got here,” Sherlock replied for him, “We’ll just be on our way.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Rucastle snarled, his aim on Lestrade, “She was perfectly happy to stay _here_ until _you_ showed up. I’m ending this once and for all, and when I find her I’m going to make sure she never even _thinks_ about leaving again.”

“You will _NOT_ harm my Omega!” Lestrade snarled, and made to launch himself at the loaded gun!

Sherlock shoved Lestrade, the gun went off, and John went feral. For several minutes everything was a white-hot blur of rage and then John was kneeling on the ground surrounded by blood. Rucastle lay before him, his throat torn open and his eyes gaping at the ceiling as he choked on his own blood.

“My hero,” Sherlock smirked, his hand holding a handkerchief to his head.

“Oh my gods, Sher!” John staggered upright in alarm.

“I’m fine, John, just a graze,” Sherlock soothed.

John started forward, remembered his bloodsoaked clothing, and sighed in frustration.

“We need to leave,” Lestrade grunted, getting to his feet, “I’ll call the local precinct and…”

“Not without telling me where Alice is,” A woman’s cold voice informed them.

The group looked up and came face to face with Alice’s look alike, her short hair clinging to her tearstained face and her hands holding up Mr. Rucastles gun.

“Oh? A governess?” Sherlock observed with a laugh, “And Miss Alice Rucastles secret Beta lover… Lestrade you’ve been cuckolded yourself!”

“Don’t laugh at ladies with guns, Sherlock. Be very, very nice to them,” John cautioned.

“You don’t want to do that sweetheart,” Lestrade coaxed, “I’m Alices pack Alpha. I’m here to set her free, but she got loose on her own. Do you know where she might have gone?”

“You’re lying,” the governess argued, “She’d never leave without me.”

“Oh, I’m afraid she would,” Sherlock chuckled, and motioned to a desk in the corner, “Mr. Rucastle was calling the wrong person a Hedonist. Well… perhaps manipulative slut would be more appropriate. Don’t want to inaccurately insult the Hedonists.”

“Sherlock! Woman! Gun!” John hissed.

“Alice loves me!” The woman sobbed.

“Yeah, me too,” Lestrade replied dryly, “Not that I’m opposed to that, but a bit of a warning might have been nice.”

“She isn’t going to fire at us, just look at her! You’re the governess,” Sherlock stated, “For the strange little boy. You answered an advert or went through a hiring agency, the latter is more likely because he needed to see every woman around Alices age immediately. You knew the job was odd because he asked you to cut your hair-“

“How could you _possibly_ know about my hair?!” She asked lowering the gun a bit in shock.

_Just a bit lower_ , John thought.

“But,” Sherlock continued, “The money was _just too good_. You probably thought they were planning on bedding you, a nice little poly relationship and a hefty paycheck; sounds delightful, but that wasn’t what happened at all, was it?”

“No. Mrs. Rucastle is completely devoted to her husband, Mr. Rucastle had no idea I existed, and the child…” The woman shuddered.

“The child is a budding sociopath, likely for the same reasons Alice manipulates people into giving her money using sex. The father is a disturbed man.”

“You’ve no idea,” the governess whispered, her eyes wide, “I’d have fled ages ago. I almost called _you_ for help, but I couldn’t leave Alice.”

“And Alice couldn’t be rid of you,” Sherlock replied, “Because she was hiding, not from her father, but from her pack Alpha.”

“What?” Lestrade asked in alarm.

“You said you’d never touched her Lestrade, but not why; you were waiting for her STD tests to come back,” Sherlock explained, and John watched in relief as the gun swung halfway towards Lestrade, “Good thing you did. She was about to fail them. Bad news Miss… I’m sorry; I’m at a disadvantage. You clearly know who I am, but I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Violet. Violet Hunter… how could you not know me but know everything about me?”

“Because I’m Sherlock Holmes, as you indicated you already knew, but I was about to give you a bit of bad news.”

“Besides my lover missing?” Violet asked, her voice edging towards hysterical.

John carefully took a step forward, but her gun flew towards him immediately. Lestrade growled low in his throat but that only drew the gun back towards him, which was evidently where he wanted it.

“I’m afraid, Miss Hunter,” Sherlock stated quietly, “That there is a very good chance that you have AIDS.”

“Have… what?” Violet’s hand sagged in horror and John darted forward and cleaning disarmed her.

“My condolences,” Sherlock stated calmly.

“She… she said I was the only one. She said she was a virgin!” Violet sobbed.

“She told me she only liked Omegas,” Lestrade sighed, “What a damn fool I am.”

Lestrade stepped forward and put a comforting arm around Violet, who was sobbing brokenly.

“Here now, I’m a doctor,” John spoke up, “I’ll get you set up with a colleague of mine who will take good care of you. Chin up! You might not have contracted it at all. No use grieving till you’re sure, and there are treatments out there, you know.”

Sherlock slipped past them both and John hurried after him to keep the man in sight.

“Sherlock! Don’t go wandering off, there are still other people in the house,” John hissed at him, and then nearly ran into him as he stopped suddenly.

“We have to contact the police. There will be an investigation. I’m furious, John! The kids have been through so much and now _this!_ If you had just _listened to me_!”

“I wouldn’t have been there to make sure they didn’t lose their Mum!” John snapped back, raising his voice without thinking.

“Who’s there?” A woman’s shaky voice called from down the hall.

“Burglers! Lock your door and call the police!” Sherlock shouted back.

The door shut with a squeak of fear.

“Oh, _that’s_ helpful!” John snapped.

“ **Kneel!”** Sherlock barked, and John hit the carpeted floor hard, “You were meant to stay behind for a _reason_ , John. I needed to know there was a level head backing me up outside. Lestrade was too upset; why do you think he made such a racket?”

“All the more reason for me to be inside, Sir,” John replied.

“ **Quiet!** ” Sherlock snapped, and John fell silent but kept a defiant glare on his face, “I will deal with you once we get home!”

XXXXXXXXX

It took 32 hours for them to get released from the station, but one of the officers of the small town jail was kind enough to take John back to his place and let him shower once they’d finished collecting evidence and booking him. He walked out of the prison in hand-me-down clothes and a relieved smile as he and Sherlock linked arms.

“You’re still getting punished,” Sherlock frowned.

“I know.”

The three weary men all piled into a cab; Mycroft was furious with them and had refused to send a car even when threatened with punishment.

“I don’t suppose you’d still be willing to bear cubs for me, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked with a sigh.

“I’ll think on it,” Sherlock replied noncommittally.

“Great,” Lestrade groused, staring out the window.

“Look,” John stated, “We don’t get it. I’m not going to pretend we do, but for what it’s worth you’ve got my respect. I couldn’t be pack Alpha, and I sure as hell wouldn’t know what to do with your sex drive. I have enough trouble keeping _one_ Omega satisfied.”

“Thanks, John,” Lestrade gave him a weak grin from his spot up front.

 

WARNING: SNUFF DISCUSSION BELOW – DON’T LIKE DON’T READ – I will note, just in case they aren’t okay with it, that the person this chapter was dedicated to did _not_ request this scene. My own sick mind thought this up.

 

Sherlock’s hand slipped in between John’s thighs and stroked the inseam of his pants firmly. John’s back straightened and his eyes widened. Was this part of his punishment? Orgasm denial the entire way back to London? Well… two could play at that game.

“How _did_ you know her hair had been cut?” John asked.

“She hadn’t figured out how to style it yet. It was completely mismanaged despite the fact she clearly hadn’t gone to bed yet,” Sherlock replied.

“Really? I thought it was lovely,” John stated enthusiastically, “All those lovely curls. You know how I love curls.”

“Mm.”

“I wish I hadn’t been covered in blood. Lestrade got the lucky job: comforting her. Where they soft?”

“Oh, very, like satin,” Lestrade smirked over his shoulder.

“John, if you’d wanted _two_ punishments when we got back home, all you had to do was ask.”

“Oh, come on now, Sherlock, you can’t possibly be jealous,” John laughed, “After all, you’ve got lovely curls yourself. I mean, you’re starting to show grey but…”

John bit his lip as Sherlock squeezed his bollocks warningly. Okay. Too far. Obviously too far… Except that had his blood pumping to his cock even faster. Who the hell got off on having their balls squeezed?

“A mirror might improve your observation skills,” Sherlock growled.

Sadly, John was now heady with desire and wasn’t sure he could stop his mouth running away with him.

“They’re just _curls_ , Sherlock. I mean, there are other parts, too. Breasts, for one, I do miss those. You know how I love it when you’re nursing. They never get very big, but ohhhh, those _nipples!_ ”

Sherlock gave him a slightly wild look, but once more reigned himself in and continued his teasing caresses.

“I wonder what it would be like… just once…”

“To what?” Sherlock growled.

“To fool around a bit with someone el…”

“I would kill you,” Sherlock stated, his voice absolutely cold.

John stilled, wondering for a moment if he really _had_ gone too far.

“Oh,” John squeaked pathetically, and swallowed hard as his knot started to swell, “I think it’s a bit unhealthy that you saying that does things to me.”

“You’re fucking shitting me!” Lestrade groaned from up front, “How the _hell_ do I always end up around you two when you decide to get weird?”

“I’d get away with it, too,” Sherlock pointed out needlessly, “Would you like me to tell you how?”

“Oh, gods, yes.”

Sherlock turned in the seat so he could face John and leaned forward, pushing him against the door. He pinned his arms just below the window and leaned over him to whisper in his hear. His free hand stroked the front of John’s borrowed trousers.

“First I’d pretend we had a case and lure you into a warehouse in the seediest district of London. I won’t tell you where right now… just in case I need it later.”

“Yeah?” John asked, his breath quickening.

“I’d have already had your lover there, of course, dead and waiting for you to cry over them.”

“I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t care. I’d be too impressed with you.”

“Oh, but you would cry, John, because I’d tie you to a chair and spend _hours_ torturing you.”

“Oh my gods,” John gasped, arching his back to seek out more friction, which Sherlock refused to give him.

“Then I’d kiss you one last time, just to say goodbye,” Sherlock murmured, sliding his lips over John’s and gripping his knot tightly through his trousers, “Then I’d choke you while riding that gorgeous cock of yours. You wouldn’t know I was going to kill you yet, you’d come hard and often and I would, too. Then, just when you were lax from pleasure, I’d break your neck.”

“Close!” John gasped.

“You leave a mess you pay for it!” The driver snapped, “And I’m half tempted to call the police, you sick fucks!”

“Save yourself the time,” Lestrade sighed, pulling out his warrant card.

“You’re with these two?” The cabbie asked.

“Yeah, well, they usually keep it in their bedroom… on the other side of the house.”

“You _live_ with these two?!”

“In-laws.”

“Poor bastard,” The driver snorted.

“Sherlock!” John cried out, arching his hips, “How’d you h-hide me?”

“The Thames would be too obvious, that’s the first place Lestrade would look.”

“Damn right,” Lestrade snorted.

“Which is why I’d hide you in the _last_ place he’d look,” Sherlock replied, slipping his hand inside John’s trousers to squeeze his knot again.

John made a strangled sound, but Sherlock tugged his bollocks back down. Instead he completely abandoned John’s aching cock, slipping his trousers back over it, and wrapped both hands around the doctor’s throat. John’s eyes widened in fear a moment, but then relaxed in trust.

“Where?” John whispered, and then let his eyes fall shut as Sherlock began to squeeze.

Sherlock leaned forward, his voice too soft for Lestrade to hear, “There’s a little old dumb waiter in Mycroft’s house, it’s unused and has been boarded up everywhere but in the basement. I’d stuff you in there and brick it over like _Cask of Amontillado._ Then I’d move a piece of furniture halfway in front of it- not all the way, that would be too obvious- just halfway so the shadow covered the new brick. You would never be found. You’d be mine forever.”

Sherlock released John’s throat and sat back to watch as John came hard in his trousers, practically convulsing before he went still and simply gasped for breath.

“Sit up straight and don’t try to clean yourself up,” Sherlock smirked.

“May I suck you off, Sir?” John flirted breathlessly.

“No. _You_ may get off on extreme danger, but that was utterly uninteresting to me.”

John sagged. He wasn’t entirely sure that Sherlock was telling him the truth, but he _was_ sure that this was his punishment: a long car ride with a pint of spunk in his pants and a healthy dose of shame. Hopefully, it was the _only_ punishment he’d get for his recent actions.

[CHAPTER 50](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/70658.html)


	50. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 50

John was back in therapy, though not with his previous doctor. The reasoning was the taxi ride.

First Lestrade, then Mycroft, and finally Sherlock had all approached John in concern over his arousal at the idea of Sherlock killing him. At first he’d defended it, trying to push the blame off on Sherlock, but everyone kept pointing out that he had still been _excited_ , and that was a bit not good.

“We all have fantasies that are outrageous and dangerous,” Mycroft confided, “I’ve got one I wouldn’t even dare to tell to Gregory, let alone you. The issue isn’t that you _have_ a dangerous fantasy, it’s that you’ve been suicidal in the past, had a man nearly kill you during sex, and that you still were aroused by such an idea recently. It brings to question whether or not you’d engage in such a dangerous practice.”

“Fuck’s sake!” John snapped in frustration, “I’m not suicidal! I don’t _really_ want Sherlock to kill me! I just… it was _just sex!_ ”

“It was alarming from Gregory’s description.”

“Yeah, well, so’s your pony play!” John snapped out, and then felt instantly guilty when Mycroft flushed in embarrassment.

“My activities with Gregory are not harmful to me, physically or sexually; and I’ll have you know pony play is very respected in upper circles. Horses are beautiful creatures, it takes someone equally graceful and powerful to portray them.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, but my ‘activities’ aren’t harmful either. Sherlock barely cut off my air. Greg’s done worse to me.”

“If Sherlock _did_ offer to…”

“Sherlock would _never_ hurt me!” John shouted angrily.

“No, but if he did offer?”

“Bugger it all!” John shouted, and stormed off.

The final straw was when BG came up to him with tears in his eyes, “Daddy? Do you want to die?”

“What?” John asked in horror, scooping his son up into his lap.

“I heard Mummy talking to Uncle My. He said he was afraid you wanted to die. Why? Don’t you love us?”

“Oh, my gods, Gregory,” John hugged his son tightly, “Of course I love you. You shouldn’t have overheard that, and I’m going to talk to your Mum and uncle about what they say around you. I _don’t_ want to die. I would _never_ want to leave you.”

BG sniffled himself out and eventually slid of John’s lap to find his cousins. John flew to Mycroft’s study, and screamed at him for an hour, found Sherlock in the music room and repeated it with him.

“I’ll make sure I talk to BG,” Sherlock nodded once John had screamed himself out and stood panting in exaustion in front of him, “But my fears are legitimate, John. You don’t go out with friends anymore. You don’t leave the house unless it’s with myself or Mycroft. When you leave with My, it’s to go to the park with the kids, where he tells me you’re nervous and constantly on high alert-”

“I’m an Alpha in a group of Omegas, of course I’m on high alert!”

“You only go out for cases with me, and this last one was alarming in the extreme. Our test results came back, by the way. We’re all disease free.”

“Right. Good. I’m not suicidal.”

“You aren’t _well,_ either. I want you back in therapy. Immediately. You haven’t dealt with everything and you need to. I also want you out socializing again.”

“I live with my best mate,” John replied, meaning Lestrade, “Who am I going to go out with?”

“Stanford, your friends from Uni, your rugby team from the clinic you used to work at, hell, make some new friends!”

“You _never_ go out, and don’t have any friends!” John shouted angrily, though he knew Sherlock was right and regretted his words a moment later.

“Corner. Now.”

John sulked over and dropped to his knees, hands placed on the back of his head.

“You are being punished for your acerbic words, not for yelling at me earlier. Your initial reaction to BG overhearing us was justified, but your lip was not.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You will remain there for one hour.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do you require something sharp to kneel on?”

“No, Sir. My old joints will make it painful enough.”

“You will tell me should you have a medical concern, otherwise you will be silent.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Beginning now.”

John sealed his lips and let himself wallow. He knew Sherlock was right. He’d become reclusive. It was one thing to indulge in his family and enjoy his time with his children, but he couldn’t even recall the sound of Stamford’s voice. He needed to get himself back on track, and a therapist and a boy’s night out were the first steps.

After that he had no clue.

[CHAPTER 51](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/71107.html)


	51. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 51

John stood up and shook the therapist’s hand, feeling overwhelming relief after only three sessions. Clara was a Beta, so John had no reason to feel either threatened or awkward with her. She had sat him down in the first session and informed him that his Dom had already spoken to her. Then she’d told him she wasn’t going to take Sherlock’s word for anything; she wanted to know what _John_ thought and felt, and it would stay between them. John had unloaded on her and then gone home feeling guilty and worried about what Sherlock would think of all he’d said. Sherlock hadn’t known. John had eagerly scheduled a second appointment and unloaded more. By the end of the session Clara told him she thought she knew why he was having so much difficulty with depression. John was stagnating. Sherlock’s cases had settled down now that the worst of the criminal masterminds were safely deceased, and John was feeling useless without Sherlock having a heat cycle. John had Post-Cyclipausal Syndrome. Apparently Alphas could get it, too and she suspected him being a Sub made it all the more intense. The solution was a round of anti-depressants, more socializing, a long talk with his Dom about his feelings, and getting a job outside of caring for the kids.

“It’s all well and good you being a stay at home dad, John, but not everyone finds that fulfilling. I’m sure you enjoy it, but it doesn’t seem to be good for you. Let the kids go with their Omegas. There’s no harm in that, the childcare is available at their jobs, and you’ll still see them. Or find a job that will allow you to bring them in. Either way, you need an activity besides Sherlock’s cases. You need something focused on you for a change.”

John had gone home with a spring in his step and headed out to his first ‘guys night out’ in nearly four years. Stamford had been shocked to get a call from him that wasn’t related to someone being in drop and had happily gone out with him and brought a few mates along. John had spent the night getting to know new people. Because of Sherlock’s fame, he and John’s dynamics were well known, which made things a bit awkward when one of the men tried to Dom John. Stamford had told him off, but John’s mated status had spared him having to submit to a weaker Dom anyway. He’d told the guy where he could shove his undersized Alpha prick and the group had laughed the whole thing off.

John had gone home slightly buzzed and feeling up to confronting Sherlock, which probably wasn’t the finest plan he’d ever had since he was still tipsy.

“Sherlock,” Johns slurred as he climbed into bed and promptly sat on Sherlock’s lap, pulling his book out of his hands, “I need to feel used.”

Sherlock smirked, “That can be arranged.”

“No, wait. That didn’t come out right. I need to feel… what were we talking about?”

“Me using you. I’m hoping violently, but you haven’t specified.”

“Useful! I need to feel useful. I want to practice.”

“That can also be arranged. Will you get off of me or shall I put you to use fetching our toys?”

“What?”

“Practice.”

“Practice what?”

“I’d assumed sex.”

“Oh. That sounds lovely, but we’re having an important maritime discussion here.”

“Maritime?” Sherlock asked, officially baffled.

“ _Marital_ ,” John corrected, “About me being useful by opening a practice.”

“Oh! Opening a practice!” Sherlock laughed but quickly sobered, “Who will take care of the kids?”

“Mycroft and you.”

“Oh, you think that, do you?” Sherlock replied, his Dom side coming out at the perceived order.

“I mean, if it pleases you Sir Domliness,” John stated with absolute seriousness.

Sherlock burst out laughing, “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. You’re an absolutely ridiculous drunk.”

“You’re right. We should just have sex,” John nodded at the wisdom of the suggestion.

“As charming as that sounds, I think you’ll be passing out soon.”

“I’m not that pissed. I’m just a bit buzzed,” John argued.

“And in no fit state to tap out if I get too rough with you,” Sherlock sighed.

“Lemme just fuck you, then,” John insisted, pulling at Sherlock’s clothes, “It doesn’t _always_ have to be about how many bruises you can leave on me.”

“True,” Sherlock smirked, and John tugged his lover horizontal and set about reminding them both that he was an Alpha.

[CHAPTER 52](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/71395.html)


	52. vincentmeoblinn | Perfect Match Fic Ch 53

Sherlock lay on the exam table, gripping both of John’s wrists painfully in his hands and occasionally biting at his arm. John smiled down on him from his position above Sherlock, excited about the prospects that this examination might yield for him. Mycroft and Lestrade were one exam room over going through a discussion about their options, which John and Sherlock would soon be joining.

“I _hate_ this,” Sherlock growled, his teeth gritted. It was contrary to a Dom’s nature to lay still while someone prodded their most private places.

“Almost over, love,” John soothed, watching the monitor as the doctor conducted an internal ultrasound.

Finally the wand was removed and Sherlock let out a sigh of relief as he was allowed to close his legs and the wedge was removed from beneath his hips. Sherlock was allowed to wash up and then they were escorted into the next room to join Mycroft and Lestrade. Mycroft was in full Sub mode; anxiously kneeling at Lestrade’s feet while the man gripped his collar tightly. John decided to join him and dropped to his knees on the floor with a warm smile, taking Mycroft’s hand comfortingly. Sherlock sat up on the exam table beside Lestrade, who wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock shoved it off, his face still showing his disgust from the examination. Lestrade chuckled and made no move to punish him.

The doctor came in and sat down.

“Well, we’ve looked over your test results, and it seems clear that Mr. Holmes’ uterus is still viable for implantation. He’d need to go on a hormonal treatment, but those are readily available. Now, Mr. Lestrade, we do have some concern about your chosen hosts’ skewed dynamics. If they weren’t already parents I’d be refusing your application completely, but with four healthy children already I will put my concerns aside.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “How very open minded and generous of you.”

The doctor ignored his response.

“We do have some decisions to make,” She continued, “Mr. Lestrade-Holmes has six viable eggs, already fertilized and ready to be administered. Will we be attempting them two, four, or all six at a time? I’ll go over the risks with each…”

The discussion continued for an hour with Sherlock glowering at the doctor the entire time. The biggest concern was John’s instincts not recognizing the fetus as family since it wasn’t his own offspring inside of Sherlock. They’d have to be kept separate if John’s instincts started telling him to kill the child inside Sherlock. Finally they were allowed to get a word in edgewise.

“I’m not going to carry more than twins. Two at a time,” Sherlock stated firmly.

Lestrade nodded and then gave Mycroft’s hair a tug when he started to breathe a bit fast, “Did you have a concern, dear?”

“Just a question or two,” Mycroft replied, swallowing repeatedly before getting himself together again. John had rarely seen him so flustered, even in Sub mode he was usually quite composed and elegant, “We’ve discussed the risks to Sherlock and our various relationships, but I’m still concerned about my babies. What are the risks to them?”

_Oh, gods, he’s already thinking of them as babies instead of zygotes. No wonder he’s frantic._

“The zygotes have a 23% chance of surviving implantation. The chance of a one surviving implantation increases with each implanted. With two implanted that would be 46% chance of one zygote surviving implantation. Once implanted, if both survive, the chance of a healthy delivery of each is 64%. If one of them terminates before the third month, it increases the chance of the other surviving dramatically. Depending on ultrasound results, age of your younger brother, the length of time the zygotes have been frozen, and three attempts of two eggs each; I’d say you have a very high chance of having at least one healthy child by the time this is through, perhaps even three.”

Mycroft had gone completely pale and was trembling despite Lestrade’s gentle caresses. Finally he hauled his red-headed bondmate to his feet and wrapped both arms around him, gripping him tightly to give him the security that only being bound by your spouse could give him. Mycroft let out a shuddering breath, but didn’t relax by much. Sherlock didn’t help matters by adding his two cents.

“I haven’t agreed to do this more than once,” Sherlock informed coldly, “Assuming the first time is successful, we’ll have to discuss subsequent attempts. I won’t risk my health. John’s life is at stake as much as mine since we’re Perfect Matches.”

“You two are Perfect Matches?” The doctor replied, a look of alarm on her face, “Won’t that make the separation during pregnancy and birth a problem?”

“We just have to be supervised,” Sherlock shrugged, “We all live together and Lestrade is our pack Alpha. Chances are John won’t have an objection- instinctual or otherwise.”

The doctor looked reassured, and the discussion continued with timetables. Finally they left with an appointment for a month later and a bottle of Omega hormones for Sherlock. John was excited to see his Omega round with child again, even if it wasn’t his own child. He was ecstatic, in fact, and all but bouncing on the soles of his feet as they gathered the children around to explain it to them. Their eldest, BG, was six years old and just ready to start questioning _everything_ ten times each.

The idea that their Mum was going to carry their cousin was a _very_ difficult one to impart, but after an hour and a break for cookies they finally got the idea somewhat pounded into their rambunctious children’s heads. When the young ones ran off to play again, Lestrade sat back with a laugh and a shake of his head.

“They’ll be asking for that whole conversation again tomorrow,” Lestrade grinned.

“And the day after that,” Sherlock intoned with a look of annoyance.

“And the day after that,” John smiled.

Mycroft was silent, “ _One_ , just one, she said.”

Sherlock gave Mycroft a sharp look, “You shouldn’t dwell on statistics.”

“It isn’t the _current_ statistics that are bothering me,” Mycroft replied, staring into his glass of brandy angrily, “It’s the statistics I might have had if I hadn’t had my children summarily _ripped_ out of my body and put into ice cube trays.”

Lestrade stood up, “I think you two had better excuse us.”

“I think not,” Sherlock replied firmly, “He needs another Omega right now. Come along brother.”

Mycroft sighed in obvious disgust, but stood and followed Sherlock from the room. John sat there, looking over his shoulder after them anxiously, and then turned his attention to a worried Lestrade.

“He’ll be alright, yeah?” John asked.

“He did the right thing,” Lestrade sighed, “When he had his eggs removed. Even the heats were starting to tell on him. If he’d carried another child it would have meant his death _and_ the childs.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” John replied, “He was a wreck after Venezuela.”

“Yeah. Sherlock’ll straighten him out.”

“Yeah,” John nodded.


	53. Chapter 53

Mycroft was sleeping in their bed. John could handle the fact he had to abstain from sex with Sherlock for a couple of months, but having Mycroft in the bed was a different realm of problem. Mycroft smelled like distressed Omega constantly, so John wasn’t able to sleep when he was around. Finally he would give up and go sleep with Lestrade.

“Again?” Lestrade grunted as John climbed into his bed and tucked himself under the half conscious man’s arm.

“Get your husband out of my bed and I won’t come crawling into yours.”

“Why don’t you sleep with your kids?”

“Smelling like your upset spouse? No way. They have school tomorrow.”

“Sleep with my kid then, he’s totally unphased by his mum being upset.”

“Your son is a robot, just like Sherlock and Mycroft.”

“Not so robotic where their kids are concerned. Even their unborn ones.”

“Yeah. Why _is_ he in my bed?”

“Sherlock. He’s worried about Sherlock’s _womb_ of all things.”

“Fucking hell. Two more weeks until the transplant.”

“Two weeks of hell. I’m horny as fuck.”

“You and me both.”

“Shame you’re off limits.”

“Shut it. I’m not interested,” John snorted.

“Neither am I, really, but an Alpha’s got needs.”

“Yeah? An Alpha’s also got hands. Start wanking.”

“With you here?”

“Like I haven’t seen it before?”

Lestrade groaned in frustration, rolled over, and went back to sleep almost immediately. John envied his ease. He probably wouldn’t even remember their conversation the next day.

Finally the day for the artificial insemination came and went with remarkably little to show for it. A simple in and out procedure and then Sherlock was at home being waited on hand and foot by his nearly histerical brother. John ended up having snarling arguments with Mycroft because he couldn’t sub to his own mate! Finally Lestrade stepped in and started moderating them. He insisted Mycroft _had_ to be allowed to sub for Sherlock for the sake of his own sanity, so John and Mycroft split things in half and Sherlock greedily sucked up all the submissive energy. He was meant to be on partial bedrest, but he sat himself down in bed and declared it a full bedrest. That meant he wasn’t even getting up to piss, so Mycroft ended up changing his bedpan. John didn’t begrudge him that so Lestrade, with a wicked grin, decided that Mycroft would do the most demeaning and disgusting of jobs. That included holding back Sherlock’s hair when he started being violently ill on the eighth day after the transplant. Since it could very well displace the zygote attempting to latch onto his uterine wall, they had to call in a doctor. Really, they should have _gone_ to the doctor, but Sherlock was adamant that he was _not_ moving so the doctor had to come to them. His diagnosis, after an annoyed speech about Sherlock taking advantage of his subs, was that it was too damn early to tell if Sherlock’s vomiting fit was due to pregnancy, nerves, illness, or a hormonal reaction from the rejection of the zygote.

A week later Sherlock declared himself pregnant and Mycroft burst into tears, sobbing in his lap for nearly an hour. John and Lestrade spent the entire time giving each other anxious looks because Sherlock didn’t _smell_ pregnant. Thankfully a few more days produced the results they’d been expecting and Sherlock proudly sneered at them for having doubted him when he had announced it before evidence was available. Mycroft’s mollycoddling didn’t lessen, but it did become less frantic and needy.

Then John got a case.

John got a case because Sherlock couldn’t take it and Lestrade was desperate. So they ended up with John carrying his phone around while video chatting Sherlock’s laptop as the two men bickered over the crime scene.

“ _Smell_ it, John!” Sherlock snapped.

“I’m not sniffing a damn rotting body!”

“It’s barely started to decompose! Just do it!”

“I’ll come down with some illness!”

“Do it!”

“I’ll die and you’ll be stuck without a sub!”

“I’ll have Mycroft! He’s more than proved he can pander to me! _Sniff it!_ ”

“I beg your pardon!” Mycroft snarled.

John paused. Mycroft paused. Sherlock glared off-screen, likely at Mycroft.

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied.

“Oi!” Lestrade shouted from across the room, “Don’t talk to my husband like that! I’m bloody sick of your lip, Sherlock!”

“Unless you’ve forgotten, _I’m carrying your children_. I suggest you get used to the lip.”

Lestrade looked murderous. A door slammed somewhere on the other side of their connection as Mycroft stormed out of the room. John was shaking mad. Sherlock had gone too far. _Far_ too far. Lestrade had only unintentionally worsened the situation by giving Mycroft the most degrading tasks, but he had likely been trying to shake Mycroft out of his clingy behavior rather than convincing Sherlock he was allowed to humiliate his brother. Now Mycroft was insulted, Lestrade was twitching for someone to punish but _couldn’t_ punish Sherlock… or could he?

John and Lestrade’s eyes met and both realized what the solution was at the same time.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade stated, walking across the room and taking John’s phone from his hand, “You’re off the case.”

“I’m _what_?”

“You’re off the ruddy case. Your behavior is beyond out of line. Your brother isn’t a doormat, and neither are the rest of us. We’re grateful you’re carrying our cubs, but it’s something _family does_ for each other. It isn’t something we should have to earn from you. We’ll take care of you while you’re laid up, but you don’t get to punish us for that.”

“I’m not punishing…!”

“That’s what it’s coming across as. I’m hanging up now. You’ll stay in that bed. Don’t you dare get up or there will be consequences _beyond_ your reckoning. John’s coming home. He’ll wait on you for the rest of the day. Don’t call Mycroft. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his voice subdued. Even he knew when the pack Alpha had had enough.

The call ended and John headed home just as Lestrade called his husband. The last he heard was Lestrade ordering Mycroft to help him with the case, his tone tender and soothing despite the fact he was issuing orders. John felt a bit jealous. He loved Sherlock, but the man was brisk and abrupt on the best of days. He so rarely got to see his beloved’s tender side and soothing only came after a harsh beating.

 _I could use a harsh beating actually,_ John sighed to himself, _It’s a pain having your Dom laid up. No wonder the sub is supposed to be the one in carrying the child! Well, we’ll make it work._

John headed home to find Sherlock looking thoughtful as he twisted his fingers in his lap like a scolded school child.

“I crossed a line,” He realized.

“Crossed a few,” John nodded.

“Mycroft… is he alright?”

“No idea,” John replied, “Last I heard Lestrade was summoning him to the crime scene.

“My brother hasn’t been going to work.”

“He has. He’s been going when you’re asleep, connecting remotely to work via his laptop.”

“When has he been _sleeping_?” Sherlock asked, his eyes wide with alarm.

“Rarely,” John replied.

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his hands over his face.

John crawled into the bed, “You’re needing a scene. That’s why you’ve been being such a prat. You need to wail on someone and you can’t so you’re lashing out in other ways.”

“That’s no excuse,” Sherlock sighed in frustration, “I’m not eighteen anymore. I can’t treat subs- and especially not my own brother- like shit.”

“I’m glad you’re aware of that,” John nodded, laying his head on Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock petted John’s hair, silent for the time being as he thought it all through.

“Why did Lestrade order me to stay in bed? Of _course_ I’d stay in bed.”

“I think he was afraid you’d get up as some sort of revenge.”

“Gods! And risk the cubs?!” Sherlock asked in horror.

“You’ve been acting a right prat,” John replied, “The thought occurred to me, too.”

“No. Never. Gods, no! My… my brother’s…”

Sherlock’s hands were shaking. John rolled over to look up at him and saw him pale and drawn.

“Shit. Breathe, Sherlock. It’s fine. The cubs are fine,” John sat up and pressed close, kissing and stroking him until he calmed and sank back in his pillows.

“My brother doesn’t trust me with his cubs,” Sherlock spoke softly.

“He does. He’s just… Lestrade is… It’s hard for us Alphas to understand what motivates you Omegas. You’re a mystery to us.”

“I need to talk to Mycroft.”

“I don’t think Lestrade will allow it right now.”

“You send him a message,” Sherlock insisted.

“Okay. Yeah. Okay,” John pulled out his mobile and texted Mycroft Sherlock’s words.

**It will not happen again – SH via John**

**See that it does not – L via M**

Sherlock relaxed further upon receiving that message and John headed out to get him some food and check on Amelia and Verity. They were playing happily with Mary but were thrilled to see their Father and eagerly swarmed him. He had them come with him to visit their Mum, cautioning them to be gentle with him. Sherlock was thrilled to have a noonday visit from the girls, snuggling them against each side and petting their beautiful curls. The twins were identical but complete opposites. Amelia was an absolute princess, obsessed with dresses and dolls and her gorgeous long hair. Verity was a tomboy with tree climbing skills that were the envy of every squirrel in London. She wore her curls short like Sherlock’s and looked exactly like him. She also had John wrapped around her little finger while Amelia had Sherlock wrapped around hers. The two were also inseparable and worked together to make sure Sherlock and John did their bidding. Only Lestrade could properly control them _and_ keep John and Sherlock from being made fools by a pair of batting eyes.

Such was the scene Mycroft and Lestrade returned to. Lestrade was preening proud of Mycroft for solving the case while Mycroft was merely anxious to get back to Sherlock. He crawled up the foot of the bed and sniffed at his belly and crotch until he was sure the man hadn’t miscarried while he was away. Then he laid his head down on Sherlock’s lap and dropped to sleep in complete exhaustion while Sherlock gently petted his hair.

“Don’t do this to him again,” Lestrade spoke softly, reaching out and petting Sherlock’s curls to show his anger had passed.

“I won’t,” Sherlock replied, pulling Lestrade’s hand in for an uncharacteristic kiss, “Thank you. For everything. For our lives here especially.”

Lestrade’s eyes softened and he bent down to press a chaste kiss first to Sherlock’s cheek and then to John’s.

“Mycroft is the one you should thank for that. He insists on you lot having the best.”

“I’ll make sure he knows,” Sherlock replied.

“C’mon John,” Lestrade rumbled, “Let’s put these two ladies to bed and then collapse ourselves.

John wasn’t tired. He’d spent a lazy day with Sherlock rather than running about like he usually did, but the girls _did_ need to go to bed. Mary and the two Alphas put the whining girls to bed, herded the rest of the kids into their bedrooms, read countless books, fetched countless glasses of water, and finally got firm with them and shut the doors on the unruly bunch.

“Like a circus,” John sighed, “How do the people with a dozen kids do it?”

“With a horde of worshipful Betas. We have trust issues, remember?”

“Oh yeah, only one Beta. Two if you count Mrs. Hudson. Damn.”

Mary laughed and headed home for the night, reminding them to call her if they needed anything. John saw her off and then joined Lestrade in the library for a drink and some meaningless chitchat. They were just starting to relax when Mycroft burst through the door. They were both on their feet in alarm, but his face was elated.

“Sherlock felt a flutter!”

Both Alphas crowded upstairs to press kisses to Sherlock’s stomach and otherwise overwhelm him until he shouted for them to leave. They hurried back out, this time with an elated Mycroft in tow to press a drink on him. Mycroft joined them this time, seeming to relax for the first time in months. He sat down with them and sipped his expensive whiskey while glowing as _he_ was the one pregnant. He refused to finish the drink, and Lestrade pressed him for the reason until Mycroft blushed and softly admitted.

“I felt the flutter, too.”

“Well that’s great, isn’t it?”

“I felt the flutter _in my abdomen_.”

There was a moment of silence and then Lestrade turned a worried look to John.

“It’s normal, Greg,” John reassured, “Mycroft’s experiencing the pregnancy too. It happens with surrogates sometimes. No one knows if it’s psychological or some chemical reaction. He might even experience the delivery.”

“So we’ll have _two_ screaming Omegas?!” Lestrade asked in horror.

“Most likely,” John chuckled, “We’d better find someone else to deliver the babies besides Mycroft.”

“Mary and Mrs. Hudson will do,” Mycroft replied.

“Except one of them will have to be taking care of you,” John pointed out, “We’ll need at least one more person, and preferably a familial Omega.”

“We haven’t got one,” Lestrade shrugged, “Most of my cousins are Betas.”

“What about one of the kids?” John suggested, “The girls are too young, but what about BG? Or Rupert?”

“Rupert would annoy the shit out of you during a delivery,” Lestrade laughed, “And he’s already trying to Dom everyone. Aiden is likely to be an Alpha as well. Not a good combo.”

“Right. BG then,” John chuckled, “He’s almost sure to be a Beta.”

“You hope,” Mycroft stated cryptically.


	54. Chapter 54

As Sherlock’s pregnancy advanced bedrest was lifted as he shifted into nesting mode and Mycroft shifted with him. The two started to do everything together; baths, Mycroft’s work, Sherlock’s cases, playing with the children, and building elaborate nests in Sherlock and John’s room before tearing them down and starting over. The children thought it was a game and joined in, looting rooms of pillows and blankets. Sherlock and Mycroft decided it was funny and started encouraging them until John and Lestrade had to spend every single evening searching through their nest to get enough bedding to sleep in while the children attacked them with pillows. It was admittedly fun, though both Alphas pretended to be outraged and shouted and roared, chasing shrieking children around the room while Mycroft and Sherlock bellowed orders to ‘defend the nest’.

John noted at one point that it was an excellent exercise for their apparently mostly Alpha brood, especially since BG was starting to show signs of protectiveness towards his Mum and Mycroft that might indicate Alpha tendencies. Of course, Betas were also protective of pregnant Omegas, but John couldn’t help but notice a nearly possessive gleam in his eyes. That was confirmed one day when a fistfight broke out amongst BG, Aiden, and Rupert about who would get to sit next to Sherlock while reading a book. John ended up stampeding into the room when Sherlock let out a distressed sound to call for him. He put each child over his knee and paddled him for fighting so close to a pregnant Omega while Mycroft literally growled at him while rubbing Sherlock’s swollen belly. That put an end to their games that day and Lestrade sat down with the three boys when he got home.

“Listen lads, I know your instincts are freaking out about now, but Sherlock isn’t an object and you have to learn that now. It’s far to easy to treat Omegas as if they are just pillows, but they’re not. He has thoughts and opinions… quite a few, actually… and you’d do well to pay attention to him. In the future, rather than fighting and potentially harming him, ask him what _he_ wants. Omegas love it when you ask them what they want. So just remember, he’s _your_ mum, and _your_ uncle,” Lestrade stated poking each boy sharply in the center of his chest to reiterated that statement.

The Aiden and BG nodded miserably, looking properly chastised, but Rupert narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

“Dad, that’s ridiculous. _I’m_ going to be his pack Alpha in eleven years-“

“Sorry, what?” Lestrade asked, gaping at his son.

“-So he should get used to obeying me _now_. Of course I’ll listen to his opinions, just like I do theirs,” Rupert waved his hands at his cousins flippantly, “but they’re irrelevant in the end. Only mine counts.”

Lestrade stood up slowly, glancing aside at John who was pale and horrified, and calmly took his son by the collar. He walked him over to the corner and quietly directed him to sit in the time-out chair.

“For how long?” Rupert asked.

“Eleven years,” Lestrade replied, then shooed John and the other kids out into the hall, “Family meeting before bed.”

The Aiden and BG nodded and all but fled down the hall to their playroom where Mary was keeping the girls entertained. Lestrade turned to John and pulled him in for a tight hug.

“Shit. Where did we go wrong? Who gave him those kinds of ideas? Us? School?”

“We need to talk to Sherlock and Mycroft,” John decided.

They headed upstairs where Mycroft was rubbing oil over Sherlock’s baby bump while they chatted amicably about the virtues of embalming fluid. They took in Lestrade and John’s mood and immediately sat up attentively with concern on their faces. Lestrade repeated back what Rupert had said but was shocked by their reaction. Sherlock laughed while Mycroft crooned at his ‘adorable little boy’.

“He’s such the Alpha,” Mycroft preened, “He’ll be a proud head to our family, Sherlock.”

“Quite,” Sherlock agreed with a nod, “And Aiden is an easy second to him. I doubt they’ll even have the sort of rivalry you and I did. Those two cousins are so content in their roles with each other.”

“Is this some sort of aristocrat thing?” Lestrade demanded to know.

“What the hell happened to _Omega Right_?!” John wondered in shock.

The two Omegas glanced at each other and then laughed at the Alphas. Mycroft answered, “He’s five. He has no idea what he’s talking about.”

“For someone who has no idea what he’s talking about he’s already planning my coup d’état!” Lestrade snapped.

“Aww,” Sherlock chuckled, “Look how insecure he is! Don’t worry, Lestrade. I’m sure your cock is still the biggest.”

“This has nothing to do with… I’m not… For the love of…” Lestrade sputtered while John tried not to laugh, “For pity’s sake he’s talking about Domming you, his cousins, his future siblings, and _me_!”

“What else is new?” Sherlock chuckled, “Do you remember when I first showing signs of being a Dom?”

“You walked up to father and stabbed him in the leg with a fork,” Mycroft chuckled, “After your punishment he asked you what on earth you’d been thinking and…”

“And I said I’d been aiming for his testicles so he couldn’t sire more competition for me!” Sherlock laughed.

“How old were you?” John asked in alarm.

“About the same age. I was so relieved when Mycroft turned out to be an Omega Sub. I just assumed I’d oust my father as pack Alpha. Of course, that never happened,” Sherlock shrugged, though he looked a bit resentful, “That honor went to one of his subordinate Alpha workers at the club. He allowed my father to stay on in an advisory role, but he was never the same again; he was practically a sub afterwards. Pack Alphas have so much further to fall. I, of course, left the pack and joined yours.”

Lestrade was looking pale, but John was clearly relieved.

“So this is just typical Alpha posturing? He’s just growing into his britches?”

“Of course,” Sherlock chuckled, “Didn’t you do the same?”

“Alpha _Sub_ ,” John pointed out, “Harry postured a bit, but then settled down a few years before she emerged as her proper gender. I didn’t have any other Alphas in my family besides my father and he wasn’t a pack Alpha. His boss at the factory was our pack Alpha until I went away to Uni. Then I let the Army Dom me for years before finding Sherlock.”

“My dad was a pack Alpha,” Lestrade spoke softly, “But I never challenged him. I just left young and started my own pack. He stepped down and named a successor about nine years before he died. What the hell am I going to do when my son _properly_ challenges me?”

“Ah, so you’ve noticed today was a challenge?” Sherlock replied, “He’ll do it again. Over and over. Eventually it will stop being vocal and you’ll have to respond physically.”

“Not yet!” Lestrade croaked, “He’s barely out of diapers!”

“Of course not yet,” Mycroft replied with a soft smile, “He’s still a child. That’s why we’re not taking what he said seriously. You should sit him down and explain that Omega opinions _do_ count, but don’t expect him to get it in one go. He’s got a child’s view of the situation; he sees it as a board game he _must_ win and is unaware yet of what cheating really is.”

“I’d also suggest you sit down and explain to the boys that they shouldn’t let Rupert walk all over them,” Sherlock instructed John, “I’ve no problem with them submitting to their pack Alpha, but that’s still Lestrade at this point and there’s a difference between submitting and being a doormat.”

John nodded and tugged a horrified Lestrade out the door.

“My son’s going to challenge me for my pack.”

“Not for at _least_ thirteen years, no matter what he thinks of himself. Eleven? Honestly. Probably more like fifteen.”

“I’ve still got barely more than a decade as a pack Alpha before my own _kid_ takes my pack from me!” Lestrade wailed.

“You’re being ridiculous,” John chuckled, “He might not even challenge you. He might move on like you did. Or pick a few of the younger ones out of your pack and form a sibling pack.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Lestrade muttered, “But I have a feeling he’s not as laid back as I was. He’s got Mycroft’s intensity. He’s going to _want_ my pack. It’s big and powerful and influential and full of breedable Omegas his age.”

“What breedable Omegas his age?” John asked with a laugh, “You mean those three cute kids from the NSY Christmas party? They could all be Betas for all you know!”

“A pack Alpha knows,” Lestrade told him miserably.

“Two of them are still in nappies!” John laughed.

“They’ll be seducing my son in no time!” Lestrade groaned, rubbing his hands over his face, “My sweet little boy is gone!”

“Was he ever actually _sweet_?” John wondered.

“No, but he was _mine_ ,” Lestrade whined.

They’d reached the library where Rupert was sitting out his timeout.

“Steady there big fellah,” John chuckled, patting his shoulder, “Put on a brave face and go talk to your son. I’ll find my boys and do the same.”

Lestrade sighed and walked through the door to face the music.


	55. Chapter 55

HUGE TRIGGER WARNING: Gore from childbirth. Death of a child & mourning.

Sherlock was relaxing in the bathtub with Mycroft when John got home from his day at his practice. The entire practice idea had been a roaring success. John was feeling more himself again, no longer just Sherlock’s furniture or the kid’s nanny. He missed his kids and nephew, but it wasn’t as if he didn’t see them. The advantage of it being his own practice was that he could zip out and leave another doctor in charge for Sherlock’s cases… or in this case for Sherlock’s impending birth.

John sat down on the edge of the gigantic tub and smiled in at Mycroft and Sherlock. The two Omegas had gone from not being able to stand each other’s company a decade ago to being inseparable during Sherlock’s pregnancy. John was sure they’d give each other space again once Sherlock gave birth, but for now there was an air of domesticity around them that was absolutely addictive. The only downside was that John had been having to kick Mycroft out of their bed in order to get a bit of tail from Sherlock now and again, but as the pregnancy advanced Mycroft was getting less clingy rather than more. It was a sure sign that the babies were doing well inside of Sherlock’s full stomach- so well that Sherlock had decided to do a home birth again. John was looking forward to it. He’d not been able to deliver their first child and the twins had been born in a hospital due to complications so he’d been denied a great deal of the normal process. Not that this time would be _normal_. John was going to be handing the babies to Mycroft rather than Sherlock. It was essential that Sherlock not touch them for at least a week in order to allow them to bond to Mycroft as their parent. After that he could step in for feedings, but it wasn’t necessary that he do so. Mycroft was lactating rather well at the moment from spending so much time around Sherlock’s pregnancy hormones.

“How are you feeling, love?” John asked, reaching down to stroke Sherlock’s full belly.

“Tired and achy. My back hurts. I’ve been having contractions but I’m not far along yet.”

John grinned widely, “Soon, then.”

“Very soon,” Sherlock nodded, “I’ve reached that sort of… peaceful feeling.”

“Will you feel your water break while in the tub?” John asked.

“Unnecessary. I’m thinking of staying in here for the delivery,” Sherlock shrugged.

“A water birth? Hmm, I’ve never done one but it shouldn’t be a problem. Hey, Myc, will _you_ be bothered sitting in birthing fluids?”

Mycroft snorted, looking up from his book, “Certainly not. As if I were unfamiliar with them. Just because I’ve only borne one child doesn’t mean I’m _squeamish_.”

“I didn’t mean… I just…” John sighed, “Never mind.”

“And the name is _Mycroft_ , not _Myc_ , do struggle through to the end.”

“Greg calls you My and Myc,” John pointed out sourly.

“He also calls me love, slut, whore, bitch, and naughty little fucktoy. I suggest you not utilize any of _those_ nicknames in his presence. Despite being poly my Husband likes to keep _me_ to himself.”

John snickered and shook his head in amusement, “Right, fine. Mycroft it is.”

“He’s ridiculous,” Sherlock stated, handing John his tablet as he geared up for an argument with Mycroft, “Why call you slut or whore when you’re all his?”

“It’s not a literal term, Sherlock,” Mycroft cut in, shoving his book into John’s arms as well, “It’s for kinky purposes.”

“Yes, but the implication is it would make him angry to use those terms.”

Mycroft sneered, “It does. As a Dom I don’t expect you to value angry sex the way a Sub would, but…”

Mycroft’s speech was cut off by Sherlock letting out a shocked cry, and grasping at the side of the tub with one hand.

“Sherlock?” John asked, standing slowly.

“Time. It’s time. Bloody _hell_ it’s time to push!” Sherlock gasped, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing.

“How the _hell_ …” John started in, furious at Sherlock for not noticing how advanced he was sooner.

“Shut up and get this baby out of me!” Sherlock shouted angrily.

Mycroft shifted in the gigantic tub, settling on his knees between Sherlock’s now spread legs.

“Your contractions were too far apart a moment ago,” Mycroft worried.

“They’ve sped up now, obviously!” Sherlock snapped, then grunted and started to push.

“Now hang on!” John snapped, scrubbing his arms and hands in the sink.

“Is there such a thing as a _normal_ birth for you?” Mycroft asked.

“ **SHUT UP!”** Sherlock ordered through gritted teeth.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in irritation, but his jaw clicked shut obediently. John knelt beside the tub and reached down to probe Sherlock’s nether regions.

“I can’t reach you like this,” John reminded him, “I need you turned over. Mycroft, can you help?”

Mycroft nodded and together they got Sherlock turned onto hands and knees and then levered him up so he could rest his hands on the far side of the tub with his back facing John. John easily reached inside the Omega, whose body had tented all on it’s own in preparation for delivery.

“Stop pushing, Sherlock,” John sighed, “You’re not fully dilated yet.”

“Fuck. No. This is _awful_ ,” Sherlock growled, “It’s _time_.”

“It’s not, darling, you’re only nine centimeters.”

“They’re twins. They’ll be smaller. They’ll fit,” Sherlock argued, bearing down again.

“Damn it, Sherlock!” John snapped, “Listen to me! I’m your Alpha and a doctor, I know what I’m talking about!”

Sherlock whimpered and stopped pushing, knowing John was right and that he had to be the obedient one during a delivery.

“Can I at least turn back over, then?”

“Yes,” John replied, rubbing soothing circles in his back, “Unless you’d like a backrub?”

“That would be good but not from this angle,” Sherlock replied, shifting around until he was sitting.

John and Mycroft set about massaging Sherlock while he sat with his knees drawn up on either side of his round belly. He moaned and shifted about as the contractions contorted his abdomen and John watched in wonder as his large round belly shifted about.

“Nursing from you might speed up the…”

“ **Do it _,”_** Sherlock ordered, and John found himself latched onto a nipple instantly.

Mycroft snickered, “You’ll have to stop Domming him during delivery, Sherlock.”

“I’ve never felt the need to _not_ Dominate someone during a delivery. I shall follow my instincts, thank you.”

“I feel immense pity for anyone who has to be in the room while you bear a child.”

“That would be you, at the moment,” Sherlock pointed out, and then groaned in misery.

“I am capable of feeling sorry for myself,” Mycroft replied, “Especially where you’re concerned.”

“Could you tease me _after_ I’ve birthed your twin cubs?!” Sherlock raged, then let out a strangled cry that had John helping Mycroft shift him back onto his knees before he remembered moving.

Lestrade barged in, apparently hearing the cry, but John’s instincts tore him from Sherlock’s side and launched him at him with an angry snarl. Lestrade easily broke his assault down with a single glare and John shrank back before recalling Sherlock and bolting for his side.

“Easy love, easy,” John soothed, pressing his fingers inside and feeling about for the opening of his cervix, “You’re fully dilated now. I can feel the head. Gods, this is happening fast.”

“It hurts,” Sherlock whimpered, “John, it hurts too much. Something is wrong.”

Lestrade took in a breath and Alpha fear scent reached John’s nose.

“Nothing is wrong, Sher,” John soothed, “You just don’t remember the pain from last time.”

“Is that normal?” Lestrade asked.

“Get out,” John replied, “And yes.”

“John my brain is a…”

“Hormone driven lump of flesh,” John replied, “That is wired to forget the pain in order to ensure you’ll conceive again. Even Omegas who are Masochists can get put off from the pain of childbirth. It’s perfectly normal to have forgotten it.”

Sherlock was muttering angrily to himself, “It’s perfectly ordinary….ooooohhh!”

“Focus on turning it into an orgasm,” Mycroft soothed, rubbing Sherlock’s lower back, “Perhaps if John pleasures you?”

“Don’t make me equate this with sex!”

“You’ve done that before, Sherlock,” John reminded with a smile, ignoring Lestrade’s continued presence, “You can do it again.”

“I don’t _want_ to!” Sherlock replied angrily, “I want to revel in the pain and misery you three have put me through! I thought you _loved_ me!”

John and Lestrade had to fight back their amused grins as Sherlock glared over his shoulder at the Alphas, but Mycroft was out of sight and had full reign of his facial expressions.

“Pain is love, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, “I’m afraid I don’t pity you much, being a Masochist.”

“Oh really?” Sherlock snarled angrily, and then paused to push and let out a snarl of outrage when it didn’t immediately produce a child, “Has Lestrade ever tied you up, filled you with cloves of garlic until your bowels were distended and you looked pregnant, and then forced you to bear down and push each out one at a time without screaming?”

“No, I can’t say we’ve ever done that,” Mycroft replied, eyebrows raised, “It sounds like it would burn horribly.”

“It does!” Sherlock snapped.

“How the hell would you know?” John asked, fighting down a chuckle at Sherlock’s purpled face.

“BECAUSE I’M FEELING IT RIGHT NOW!” Sherlock shouted, then let out a roar as he gave yet another push.

Lestrade was leaning against the doorjamb, trying to laugh as silently as possible, “We’re trying that.”

“No we are _not!”_ Mycroft gasped in horror, “I’ll safeword! That sounds horribly dangerous! I’ll not undergo the humiliation of going to the hospital to have every lump of garlic in Italy removed from my rectum!”

That did Lestrade in and he sank to the floor laughing while Sherlock ranted and screamed about how his labor was being made a mockery of. Then he promptly delivered the first child. John shouted in surprise, quickly going from providing support for Sherlock’s hips to catching a child who hadn’t bothered to come out slowly at all.

“Bloody hell!” John gasped, turning the child and clearing out her nose and mouth, “Female, Mycroft, here take her the next is on the way!”

Sherlock sobbed, trying to stop the labor despite his instinctual urge to push, and John had to spend a moment coaxing him until he gave another push. This time a foot appeared and John swore as he pushed his hand inside to urge the other foot out. Luckily he was able to grasp an ankle before Sherlock tore horribly and the child slid out without further complication, it’s arms being wrapped tightly around as if it were hugging itself tightly. Mycroft was just snipping the cord of the first child, Lestrade having fetched their birthing kit.

“Male!” John declared, as he cleared the child’s mouth and nose out. Then paused as he was examining the child and laughed, “Alpha female!”

“No!” Mycroft gasped in disbelief, then beamed, “Another Alpha!”

“The hell is with this family?” Lestrade grinned, “We’re freakishly fertile!”

“Watch your mouth in front of my babies!” Mycroft snapped, pulling the second child to his breast, “And help me up. I want to dry off.”

“Oh yes, just leave me here!” Sherlock moaned, “Suffering and filthy!”

Mycroft paused, much to John’s surprise, and returned with two careful bundles pressed to his chest and nursing. He carefully knelt by Sherlock’s head and smiled down at him gently.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly, tears in his eyes, “I can’t possibly thank you enough, but I’ll start with that. Thank you for my children.”

Sherlock raised his head, his face haggard and his eyes filled with pain, but when he met Mycroft’s eyes he smiled softly. John was massaging his loose belly to encourage the afterbirth to come out, so he didn’t get to give Sherlock the friendly kiss that Lestrade bestowed upon him as Mycroft slipped out of the room, but he did get a quick peck on the cheek from Lestrade before he followed his Omega and two children outside of the room.

“Just another push, love,” John soothed, “Then I can go back to being the one who screams in pain.”

“I love you,” Sherlock sobbed, “Thank you for this, John. Thank you for letting me do this.”

“ _Letting_ you?” John laughed a bit, “I don’t remember you asking me permission… or needing it.”

“If you’d have asked me to, I wouldn’t have.”

“I wanted you to,” John replied, “They wanted more kids and I wanted more nieces and nephews. I love our huge crazy family.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “I won’t be emotional enough to say this to you later…”

“Okay,” John replied nervously, “What?”

“You are everything to me,” Sherlock replied his voice so soft John could barely hear it, “You and our children, and Mycroft and his children, and even Lestrade. I don’t deserve all of you.”

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s hip, “Yeah you do, you mad, beautiful, brilliant man.”

Sherlock strained and the afterbirth for both children slid free in one almighty push. He nearly collapsed face first into the water but John caught him and carefully turned him onto his side before pulling the drain on the tub.

“I’ll hose you off once I’m sure you aren’t hemorrhaging or torn,” He soothed, “Then you you’ll have to get out to prevent infection. I’ll fetch you some pain pills.”

“I want my babies,” Sherlock told him.

John felt a bolt of pain go through his heart, “Sherlock… love… They aren’t yours.”

“No,” Sherlock replied, giving John a caustic glare, “I want my _children_. As in BG, Aiden, and the twins.”

“Oh. Right. I’ll just… fetch them once I know you’re okay.”

“Good,” Sherlock replied, glaring at him, “Now let me just…”

Then Sherlock cried out again, strained, and began to push again, scrambling to his hands and knees.

“How much bloody afterbirth is there?!” Sherlock swore angrily.

“None!” John replied in alarm, “You’ve passed them both!”

“Oh gods, no,” Sherlock moaned, “Not again.”

“Again?” John asked, leaning forward to see a tiny head crowning.

“Constance,” Sherlock sobbed, and pushed harder.

John stared in horror, even as he moved into position to pull out the third child as it slipped free. Sherlock’s forehead hit the tub as he gasped and sobbed in pain in the drained tub. John held the child in his arms, palpitating his chest and pressing his mouth over the tiny, blue child’s mouth and nose. Minutes passed before Sherlock’s hand closed gently on John’s wrist.

“Let it go.”

“There shouldn’t even be a third,” John replied, looking up in horror, “They only put in two eggs. How the _hell_ is there a third.”

“Think like a doctor, John. If I can think clearly so can you. Look at its genitals,” Sherlock replied softly from his draped position against the side of the tub, “Alpha female. That’s an identical twin to the one who survived. The poor thing is barely six inches long- a parasite twin. We’re lucky things weren’t more complicated.”

“Oh gods, Mycroft…”

“Don’t tell him.”

“What?”

“He’s on the other side of the manor by now, curled up with two healthy babies. Don’t tell him. Give her to me. Let me give her a little love before we bury her.”

John hesitated a moment, worried for Sherlock’s mental state, and then passed the tiny figure into Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock curled up on the bottom of the blood-smeared tub and held the child to his swollen chest. He crooned softly for a moment, petting her head and pressing kisses to the blue skin. He lovingly sang softly for a verse or two, his deep voice filling the room, and then let out a sad sigh.

“Go. I’m fine. Bury her near the east gate and cover it with a stone.”

John stood up on shaky legs. His instincts were at war. Part of them wanted to stay and tend his Omega, but the other part wanted to get rid of the dead child before his Omega became distressed by the presence. The second won out when Sherlock gave him a weak glare.

“I can pass afterbirth on my own and I’m not bleeding or badly torn. I don’t even need stitches. Go.”

John nodded and left for his sad, lonely task. If it was the last thing he did he would make sure Mycroft _never_ found out.

XXX

On the other side of the manor Mycroft laid leaning against his husband with his two babies pressed to his chest. He was weeping openly, overwhelmed with joy as he stared down at two dark heads with mouths hungrily gulping up his milk.

“They’re perfect, Gregory,” He whispered.

“Yeah they are,” Greg replied, pressing a kiss to his temple, “You did good.”

“I did nothing,” Mycroft replied, “My brother…”

“Did what a good Omega brother would do and carried our babies for us. That doesn’t make you any less their Mum.”

“I already love them so much,” Mycroft whispered, “How is that even possible? I’ve loved Rupert for five years. It doesn’t seem right to love them just as much already.”

“Yeah it does,” Gregory replied, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s temple, “Speaking of Rupert, I’m going to go get him and bring him in to meet his siblings.”

“Not yet,” Mycroft insisted, “Let’s just enjoy the quiet for a bit longer. He’ll be bouncing everywhere once he sees them. Let them sleep first. We’ll introduce them in the morning.”

“Sure,” Lestrade replied, snuggling his mate’s neck and lapping at their mating mark. He might spend the occasional night away from him in someone else’s arms, but Mycroft and their family were his entire world.

“Do you want to have more?” Mycroft asked, “I still have four eggs left.”

“That’s up to Sherlock,” Greg replied, “But yeah. I want to have every child with you we can. Just realize… we might lose some. I know that’s a downer right now, but I want you to face it while you’re holding two healthy kids. You have them both, but you might not _get_ four more.”

“I know,” Mycroft sighed, “Thank you for keeping me straight.”

“They look like you,” Greg smiled.

“They look squished,” Mycroft chuckled, passing one to Greg to wind while he helped the other burp.

XXX

John returned from burying the tiny infant to find Sherlock curled up in the tub sobbing brokenly.

“Oh gods,” John whispered reaching down to touch his damp curls, “I knew I shouldn’t have left you.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He was completely undone, his entire body shaking as he wept in a mess of post-partum hormones. John grabbed the shower and gently cleaned him off before helping him up. He was still dripping blood and would for a few days, but John wasn’t concerned about the state of the floor. He got Sherlock into bed, tucking an absorbent pad beneath him, and curled up beside him to hold him close.

“My babies,” Sherlock whispered.

“I know, love. I know. They’re with Mycroft; he’s their Mummy. You get to be the cool uncle they talk to about Omegas and stuff.”

“Not Constance and Isabella,” Sherlock replied, “They’re all alone.”

John’s heart twisted in his chest. Isabella was the name he’d wanted for a girl if they’d had another.

“They’re not alone,” John replied softly, “They’re…”

“If you say _heaven_ ,” Sherlock growled, trying to sit up and failing. He sank back down and gave John a sad look, “Constance is on my mantle and Isabella is being kept company by bugs and worms.”

“Fucking hell, Sherlock!” John gaped.

“It’s the _truth_ , John,” Sherlock replied, “I see no reason to paint it with pretty colors.”

“I don’t believe that. I believe they’re in a better place.”

“What place could be better than their mother’s arms?!” Sherlock demanded.

John closed his eyes a moment, swallowing down his hurt and focusing on Sherlock’s needs, “Maybe they are in your arms, Sherlock. Maybe wherever they are feels like you’re with them forever and when your time comes you _will_ be with them forever.”

Sherlock scoffed, “With that reasoning we _should_ tell Mycroft one of his cubs died so the introduction after death won’t be awkward.”

“Well what do you want me to say?” John asked in frustration, “That they’ll make good fertilizer?!”

Sherlock was silent for a time while John cursed himself for letting Sherlock rile him up. When he finally spoke his voice was steady, all traces of depression gone.

“I want them to be together. I want to scatter Constance’s ashes over Isabella’s grave.”

“Okay. Give it a couple of days. Once you can walk without too much pain we’ll go.”

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion of a speedy delivery of three babies overwhelm him. John glanced at the clock on their nightstand. He’d only been in labour for roughly ten hours. It wasn’t even dawn yet. John sent a text to his assistant to open the office for him tomorrow and then let himself fall into a fitful sleep.

 

A/N: I miss you Alexander. I wish I’d gotten to meet you, little angel.


	56. Chapter 56

Sherlock was suffering from post-partum depression, severely enough that John wrote him a prescription after only two weeks. Once the pills kicked in he was able to actually rise from his bed and see the twins he’d carried for the first time since the delivery. They sat curled up on Mycroft’s lap, sleeping peacefully, while Sherlock stared down at them.

“You have to let us know if you’re feeling any urge to take them,” John said softly.

Sherlock glared at him and pointed at his chest, “Medicated.”

“I know, but…”

“Med. I. Cate. Ed.”

“Yeah, okay, okay,” John nodded, sighing and rolling his eyes.

Mycroft looked up at his brother with a look that wavered between worried and loving, “Do you think you’re capable of holding them?”

Sherlock was silent for several seconds and then stated quite plainly, “No. John, go and get my children.”

“Yeah, okay,” John nodded, and hurried to the nursery to wake them up.

BG and Aiden were already awake and reading so he just ordered them downstairs to tend to their Mum.

“He’s out of his room?” BG asked, “Did you give him happy pills?”

“Where did you hear…? You know, I don’t wanna know. Just go to the library and give him enough hugs and attention to keep him from being stroppy.”

“I don’t think we have enough,” Aiden replied with wide eyes, but BG only laughed and tugged him out the door.

John chuckled and then headed for the girl’s room to wake them up. They were curled up in the same bed again, wrapped around each other as if they were still in the womb. John snapped a photo with his phone and sent it to Sherlock who would likely melt inside but remain utterly stoic on the outside. Or cry. Gods only knew with all those damn hormones running through his body. He roused Amelia and Verity, who were excited because they were starting school that day, stuffed them into their best dresses and chased them down the stairs.

“Mummy! Mummy!” Amelia shrieked, running into Sherlock’s arms despite his already full lap, “We’re starting school today!”

“I forbid it,” Sherlock stated firmly.

Amelia and Verity giggled while John worried if he were serious or not, but a glance at Mycroft answered that when he gave John an amused headshake. John relaxed and went to fetch food for everyone, feeling a nice continental breakfast in the library was a welcome change. He loaded up a cart with various cold items and wheeled it in just as Greg strode in with his chest puffed out at the sight of his family.

“Look at my gorgeous pack!” Lestrade crowed, “You’re all so healthy and strong!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and Sherlock scoffed at him, but John basked in the praise and presented him with a bagel overflowing with butter and herbs. It was his favorite so he sank into a chair beside Mycroft and moaned as he bit into it.

“This is the life,” John decided with a grin, “Wee ones everywhere, not worrying about where the next payment will come from, my practice is thriving, you’re all healthy and beautiful…”

“Stop,” Lestrade ordered, “Stop right there before you jinx us.”

“Oh, come on,” Sherlock scoffed.

“You don’t actually believe that drivel, do you?” Mycroft asked.

“I had to chase you across two continents and bugger you for nearly a year before you gave in and married me. Yeah, I believe in shit going wrong and arrogance causing it,” Lestrade replied with a snort.

Mycroft sniffed proudly, and then made a face, “I believe I shall excuse myself in order to begin my day.”

“He means they need their nappies changed,” Sherlock translated helpfully.

“I’m more interested in what their names are,” John replied, grinning eagerly.

It wasn’t uncommon for Omegas to wait until after a child was born to pick a name and then to keep it secret for a while, as if it were a little tiny piece of the child they didn’t have to share. Two weeks, however, was a bit long, and even Gregory hadn’t heard his children’s names yet.

Mycroft looked up at them and smiled serenely before walking over to Lestrade. He leaned forward and whispered into his mate’s ear for a moment and then stepped out of the room without another word. Lestrade looked up at them with moist eyes, but blinked back the tears.

“William and Jounette,” Lestrade answered softly, “Jounette is the French feminine version of John, pronounced Jeanette.”

“William?” John asked, “Who do we know who’s a William?”

“Me,” Sherlock replied softly, “My first name is William. Sherlock is the middle.”

“How… how the H-E-L-L did I not know that?” John wanted to know.

“We can spell,” BG pointed out helpfully.

“You never grew up with him,” Lestrade chuckled.

“What’s your excuse?” John demanded.

“Or arrested him,” Lestrade replied with a shrug.

John laughed and set about taking the kids to school, the result being an hour long argument before he stuffed them all into their van and then drove them the three blocks to the primary school. Amelia and Verity burst into tears at the doorway to the school, latched themselves onto a leg each, and refused to let go. John was in a right jamb because Alphas weren’t allowed to enter a school building without an Omega or Beta (at least a family member if not their mate) in tow. He finally shouted for BG to go get the school counselor; he gave his father an amused look and bolted inside.

John’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and he glanced down at his terrified daughters.

“Okay,” John sighed, “What did your brothers and/or cousins tell you?”

Four big eyes, so much like Sherlock’s, looked up at him full of wide-eyed fear. Amelia spoke first.

“Aiden told us that on your first day they chain you to the blackboard to see how you react so they know if you’re a Dom or a Sub, then they put you in a different class depending on which you are.”

“And,” Continued Verity, “We don’t want to be separated.”

“You… you shouldn’t even _know_ what Dom and Sub are let alone _which_ you are!”

The girls blinked up at them, and Verity spoke again, “Everyone knows what Dom and Sub are.”

“Oh yeah?” John asked, “Which am I?”

“Daddy’s are all Doms, so you’re a Dom, and Mummy’s are all Subs, so Mommy is a Sub,” Amelia explained as if he were stupid.

“Okay. So Daddy’s are Doms and Mummy’s are Subs?” John asked just as the counselor showed up and gave him a horrified look. John threw up his hands, “They brought it up! Swear to gods, I’m not trying to corrupt my kids.”

The counselor sighed and stepped out onto the threshold, “Most children hear about it in conversations and have preconceived ideas of what it might mean. That’s actually a typical one. Was that the problem?”

“No, their bratty sibling told them they’d be tied to the blackboard to figure out who was which!”

The teacher chuckled, “That’s an old one, too. You didn’t hear that growing up?”

“We were homeschooled. Sherlock wants to do the same someday, but not now because he’s busy with his business and so is Mycroft and… never mind. Speaking of Sherlock,” John glared down at his daughters, “When you two see your brother next tell him I’m telling his Mum about that story and he’s in for a heap of trouble.”

“No one is going to tie you two up,” The counselor soothed, “Come on inside and I’ll show you to your _seats_.”

Amelia and Verity still whimpered as they waved goodbye to John, but they at least let go and went inside the building. The counselor, however, still gave John an odd look. He thought it was likely because he’d threatened his son with punishment by the _Omega_ rather than himself. She’d likely go back and pull up the children’s records, realize that John was a Sub instead of a Dom, and start questioning the children left and right to find out if they were ‘damaged’ by having parents who were sexual deviants. They’d already gone through that with BG and it had gotten scary for a bit until they’d gotten a child psychologist to confirm that he was perfectly healthy.

John’s day at the clinic was the usual; filled with piles, thrush, and STI’s. Sometimes Sherlock would play a trick on him and sneak in in disguise to tease John, so for a few minutes he thought an eccentric old man was actually Sherlock. Thankfully he figured out it wasn’t before he snogged the poor confused bastard. He spent half of his day watching the clock and the other half watching his phone hoping Sherlock would text him with a case. When the clock hit 8 he finally did get a text, but it sounded ominous.

**Come straight home. That’s an order. SH**

Odd. Sherlock didn’t usually feel the need to end his sentences that way. He usually just _assumed_ everything he said would be taken as an order and therefore obeyed. Worried about the kids, John took a cab rather than the tube and rushed into the Manor to find everyone in the sitting room surrounding Mary who was curled up in Lestrade’s lap sobbing brokenly.

“Oh gods,” John whispered, “What happened?”

Sherlock looked up, his face wet from crying and his arms full of sobbing children. John had only rarely seen him so broken. He looked as if his mother had died; when he spoke next John realized how accurate that thought had been.

“Mrs. Hudson passed away this afternoon.”


	57. Chapter 57

Martha Hudson, 86, late of 221A Baker Street, had passed away in her sleep during an afternoon nap. She left 221 Baker Street to Mary Morstan with the stipulation that Sherlock never be evicted from 221B no matter how irritating he got. She left Sherlock her tea set and left John a box of photographs of he and Sherlock. Each of the children were left a stuffed animal, she hadn’t even forgotten the new ones. Lestrade was given a warm blanket she’d knitted herself and Mycroft left with her cigarette holder that he stared at fondly for the entire funeral. The funeral was held at Baker Street, the small urn being added to the assortment of odds and ends on the mantle of 221B where Mary had agreed it fitted in the most.

“She loved it here,” Mary whispered, slipping her thumb into her mouth.

Sherlock surprised John by slipping an arm around Mary’s shoulder, “She can stay here indefinitely. Assuming you leave this place to our family or someone equally devoted to her.”

Before John could scold him for bringing up such an indelicate topic up Mary answered with: “I was thinking BG.”

Sherlock nodded his approval and John smiled softly at his idiot Dom. He sometimes forgot that Mary was in Sherlock’s zone of people he approved of and therefore respected during serious situations.

Finally the crowds of mourners left and they took their family home where they resumed the furpile that had started when they’d gotten the news three days ago. John rocked Sherlock and his children, his legs slowly going numb, while Lestrade comforted Mary and Mycroft buzzed around them providing the usual form of comfort: food. Once Stamford arrived with fresh supplies they snuggled into a furpile in Sherlock and John’s room, all the children included since it was part of their grief as well. Mary was so distraught at the loss of her ‘Mummy’ that Lestrade eventually removed her from the rest of the group to comfort her in private. When he returned they both smelled of sex and she curled up in Mycroft’s arms to sleep it all off while Lestrade washed up in the bathroom before returning to lean over Sherlock.

“You need anything?”

“Not your cock,” Sherlock scoffed.

Lestrade sighed, “You get one for grieving. Cut the snip. I’m trying to be here for you.”

Sherlock shifted a bit on the mound of pillows they’d made for their little furpile, “I’d like some time alone with my Husband, but the kids are here in the furpile so…”

“Go on. Take the room across the hall.”

Lestrade slipped the cubs out of Sherlock’s arms and BG crawled out of John’s lap to curl up with him as well. Stamford opened the door for them and they slipped out to the guest room across the hall from Sherlock’s bedroom. Once there Sherlock stretched out on the bed and ordered John to undress him.

“Do you know why we crave sex during furpiles?” Sherlock asked.

“I know the bit about an Omega going into heat to lure an Alpha in to protect them,” John replied as he slipped between Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock was far from ready for penetrative sex since he’d delivered three cubs recently, so John leaned forward and took him into his mouth, lapping at his cock until it began to firm up.

“That’s one aspect,” Sherlock explained, his tone soft and breathy, “The reason we crave it during furpiles is two-fold. 1) The endorphin release can stave off Sub/Topdrop. 2) When a death is involved an Omega’s first instinct is to re-swell the ranks by making new pack members. Omegas who aren’t mated yet will become interested in the Alphas around them in an attempt to find a mate for their next Heat. Some even go on Mock Heat if there’s an available Alpha nearby who hasn’t shown them interest yet.”

John moaned his understanding around Sherlock’s cock and then groaned in appreciation as he tangled his fingers in John’s hair and yanked a bit. Sherlock was silenced by his growing pleasure, reduced to pants and soft moans as John worked to bring him off and give him the release he needed.

“Jooohn,” Sherlock moaned, “Please. I need to _feel_ something besides empty.”

John winced, understanding the meaning beneath his words, but there was little he could do. He reached up and stroked his bollocks with one hand while gently probing his taint with the other. Too close and he’d cause pain- which Sherlock did _not_ enjoy- too far away and he wouldn’t give him the extra boost he needed. Sherlock’s breath was coming in pants when John gave up on his taint and reached up to tease a nipple instead. Sherlock thrashed, tossing his head from side to side. John added a bit more suction and growled around Sherlock’s cock to give him a bit of vibration, but he still wasn’t close.

“Damn it, John!” Sherlock shouted, “This won’t _do_. I need my prostate touched!”

John slipped off and smiled down at Sherlock lovingly, “I have an idea, but you might not like it.”

“I’ll like _anything_ that involves me coming!”

“Okay,” John nodded, “I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock grumbled but let him leave and John slipped into their rooms to walk over to where Mycroft was curled up with Mary and his children.

“Hey,” John whispered, “Sorry to bug you, but Sherlock’s gotten needy despite not being healed enough. Can I borrow something from you guys? I don’t have what I need.”

“Sanitize it after,” Mycroft replied sleepily.

John nodded and headed for Lestrade’s rooms, fetching the kit he knew would be there.

“Kinky bastard,” John grinned, then hurried back to the room.

Sherlock was frantic enough to be stroking himself when John arrived, but he was relieved to see that he hadn’t gone so far as to try to finger himself. John came back and laid the kit out, pulling out the bit of metal and holding it up. Sherlock moaned, his eyes widening with lust as his hand sped up on his cock.

“Prostate stimulation via sound? Oh, John!”

John smiled shyly, “How do we work this? I know you don’t want to feel Dom’d…”

“Easy,” Sherlock smirked, licking his lips in anticipation, “ **Lube it up _._ ”**

John shivered as that Dom voice ran through him and grabbed the lube, pausing to run a swab over everything to make sure it was all clean. He saturated the sound and then pressed the tip of the bottle to Sherlock’s cock and gently squeezed some inside. Sherlock shivered, sucking in his breath at the chill, and John found himself murmuring soothing words the way he did with patients.

“Shut up,” Sherlock growled, clearly annoyed, “I’m not into medical play.”

John snickered and started to work the sound in, twisting it a bit and then pushing slowly inside before easing out and starting in again.

“Oh gods,” Sherlock gasped, holding completely still, “It’s like you’re fucking my cock.”

“I am.”

“Shut up. I think my brain is short-circuiting. When are you going to reach my prostate?” Sherlock asked, the question sounding desperate.

“Soon.”

“Soon, when?”

“Another inch,” John reassured him.

“Hurry,” Sherlock panted, closing his eyes as a pained expression crossed his face.

“Does this hurt you? It shouldn’t hurt.”

“No, it just feels odd and… I need this John!” Sherlock gasped, his tone frantic.

“Almost,” John reassured, and then slid that last bit inside.

The sound met resistance and Sherlock’s eyes flew open to stare at the ceiling in shock.

“You can’t thrust,” John reminded him, “Just lay back and…”

“ _Don’t_ tell me what to do. Ask me. Beg me.”

“Please, Sir,” John whispered, his tone sultry, “Please lay still and let me pleasure you.”

“Yesssss,” Sherlock breathed, his body going lax.

John began by moving the sound out a bit and then slowly pressing it down on his prostate once more. Sherlock whimpered and his cock twitched and pulsed around the metal rod. John held it steady a moment and then slowly twisted it a full circle. Sherlock drew in a breath slowly the entire time and let it out as a whimper when he stopped. John repeated the motion by going counter-clockwise and Sherlock’s eyes stared up at the ceiling as if he had a dozen nicotine patches on. John pulled out a tiny tuning fork from the kit and tapped the sound with it before resting the vibrating tongs against the head of the sound. Sherlock’s eyes rolled back in his head and he actually stopped breathing for a moment.

“John. I’m close. I just need…” Sherlock panted.

“I’m here, love,” John soothed, “Please let me touch you?”

“Yes. Now. Do it!”

John released his cock, watching as the bouncing drove Sherlock wild even as he refused to move, and squirted lubricant onto his hand. He wrapped that hand around Sherlock’s cock and started to stroke it, pulling the foreskin up enough to touch the sound and then sliding it back down again. Sherlock was thrashing his head from side to side while trying to keep his hips still. From his mouth emerged one long, tortured moan.

“John! More!” Sherlock cried out.

John’s dry hand gripped the little ball at the tip of the sound and he twisted it again. Sherlock gasped, eyes rolling back in his head, and John slowly withdrew the sound and gave him another pump with his hand. Sherlock came with a strangled scream, his first spurt flying up to his chin while the rest oozed out due to his loosened hole. John continued to stroke, leaning forward to suckle a bit of milk from one swollen teat, and was rewarded with another climax before Sherlock went limp with pleasure. John moved to suckle the other nipple just to make things even and was rewarded with a spray in the face from the first.

“Serves you right,” Shelrock scoffed, “I’m not nursing them so I’m full to the brim. Only you’ve been sipping off of me these last two weeks.”

John wasn’t bothered. In fact he was intensely aroused and gave that tiny tit a squeeze so that it sprayed him again. John moaned and rubbed the fluids into his skin and hair before starting in on the other one.

“You’re obsessed,” Sherlock laughed, reaching down to palm his cock, “Come on me. We’ll both be a mess.”

“Oh gods,” John gasped, writhing as Sherlock slipped a leg over his hip.

“Over,” Sherlock ordered, so John rolled onto his back and helped Sherlock straddle him, “I’m going to make you come and then I’m going to bite you.”

“Yes!” John gasped, the idea of a bit of pain tossed in after so long without a chance to have a scene was bringing John quickly closer to the edge.

“Do you want to know where?”

“Yes!”

“I’m not going to tell you. It might be your shoulder. Or your neck. Or your hip. Or I might even bite…” Sherlock leaned down and ghosted a breath over John’s cockhead. He stilled, alarmed and _not_ interested despite the fact his cock was twitching eagerly, but then Sherlock continued with: “That plush arse of yours.”

Sherlock’s growled words, spoken against the head of his cock so that they rumbled pleasingly, brought John right to the edge.

“Sh-Sh-Sherlock, please may I come, Love?!” John gasped out.

“Yes,” Sherlock growled, sitting up and renewing his strokes until John cried out and went crashing over the edge. He painted his chest with semen, moaning and wriggling about as Sherlock massaged his knot until he sank back on the bed in relief.

“S’good,” John sighed.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” Sherlock smiled, and then grabbed his arm and bit his wrist.


	58. Chapter 58

Things settled back into routine, as they must after a death, even a devastating one that felt as if it shouldn’t be recovered from. Sherlock had cases, John had patients and cases, Lestrade had cases and Sherlock, and Mycroft did whatever it was Mycroft did that hopefully didn’t end in war. The children adjusted well for the most part, though the younger ones cried for her for weeks. Mary was the one who seemed to fare the worst aside from Sherlock.

Over the next few years Mary dropped into a deep depression and more than once John walked in on her telling Lestrade that she was tired of being abandoned by her Daddies and Mommies. Instead she abandoned her identity. No more was she the four foot ten inch baby doll they’d all grown to love. She switched from pacifiers to biting her nails. Her diaper bag was traded for a designer purse. Her frocks were traded for smart pantsuits. She looked lovely, the sort of woman John would have pursued once, but she wasn’t _herself_.

They all tried to talk to her, but she was immovable. She stopped dating, stopped listening to Greg, and became so irresponsible with the children that Sherlock called a halt to her being their Beta after BG called him at a crime scene to complain that she’d given them plain bread for lunch and then left them alone in the flat.

“I’m not sure if I got all of the poop out of Juanette’s… you-know-what,” BG complained in concern.

Sherlock left the crime scene, furious with Mary, and fired her rather than punish her. John was shocked, Lestrade was as angry as Sherlock, and Mycroft was disgusted.

“Typical,” Sherlock griped when Mycroft stormed in, “This has been a horrid day.”

Then he filled Mycroft in while the man fumed. He’d been aware of course, just as he’d been aware that BG had called Sherlock (meaning Mycroft didn’t have to call him or leave work) and that Sherlock had fetched the children.

“The question is: what are we going to do about her?” John asked worriedly once he’d gotten home and been filled in as well, “I mean, she’s a huge part of our lives. A part of our kid’s lives. She’s going to keep on living in the flat Sherlock uses for business, and she’s going to come around. So how do we deal with this?”

Sherlock frowned, “The way we deal with every situation. We investigate.”

“She needs a therapist,” John argued, “Not a criminal investigation.”

“Her behavior has altered suddenly and dramatically…”

“After her lover died,” John reminded gently, “Her _second_ lover to do so. Your behavior may have stayed the same, but she’s not you.”

“Her behavior has changed too much for that to be the cause,” Sherlock argued, “She’s like a different woman! Besides, I received this summons a week ago on _court paper_ asking me to investigate her and someone named Baron Adelbert Gruner and…”

“Maybe you just didn’t know her as well as you thought,” Mycroft replied scathingly, still cross from having his children left with someone irresponsible.

“She’s been caring for our children for nearly ten years!” Sherlock snapped back, “I know her as well as I know you!”

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something horrid back but Lestrade put an end to the argument and followed up by ordering Sherlock to investigate. John was rather put out, but Lestrade pulled him aside.

“Look, he needs this,” Lestrade explained, “He needs to feel… I don’t know. As if he’s done something. Those were his babies left like that, and his Beta who is gone now.”

“Yeah. Okay,” John nodded, “I just hope he accepts it when he doesn’t find anything. In the mean time the kids are _all_ going to have to go with Mycroft and he has enough on his plate.”

A week later John was at his practice seeing the usual assortment of piles, thrush, and various STI’s. He was sick to death of it and wishing Sherlock would pull him out of work for a case when his phone went off. He checked it, hoping it was Sherlock, but did a double take when he realized what it was. John had set his phone years ago to monitor the news for him, sending him any article that mentioned his Husband. Usually they were just blurbs about him being all knowing, pregnant with an alien baby, a fraud, or the occasional proper article about a case they’d solved. Today it was a Tweet about Sherlock being hospitalized.

[](http://i62.tinypic.com/1ookg0.png)   


 

John all but trampled a doctor and a nurse on his way out the door. He was smart enough to take a cab rather than try to drive, but only just. On his way to St. Mary’s he got a call from the hospital. He was already halfway to subdrop but the doctor’s confident words calmed him.

“Your Husband is in surgery now, Dr. Watson-Holmes. You hold it together and we’ll let you in. You got that? _Hold it together._ ”

The man on the line either was likely a Beta, so no Dom voice, but he did manage to get John focused. He counted backwards from twenty. He mimed washing his hands while singing ‘Happy Birthday’ twice just to give himself something to focus on. He got out of the car, presented his credentials without a drop of sweat marring his forehead, and was led into the prep room and then quickly into the OR.

His Dom was stretched out on a table under massive lights, his head haloed on the cold metal table. His eyes were taped shut, his mouth intubated, his hair coated in blood.

John didn’t dare ask questions, he just relieved a nurse and started handing over instruments. There would be time later to demand an explanation, find someone to rail against, scream his outrage and helplessness at the world. He needed his beloved to pull through.

His abdomen was a wreck. Completely destroyed. John felt himself grateful that Sherlock and Mycroft had decided not to have him carry any more kids after his intense depression after the twins were born. The doctor removed his uterus and ovaries, stitched his cervix closed, and removed two feet of intestines. Sherlock was sewn back up and placed in recovery where John sat at the side of his bed and gently washed the blood from his hair and face. A nurse checked on him repeatedly, getting him anything he asked for without question, no matter how bizarre. John ended up surrounded by chairs and a small army of pop. When Lestrade led their hushed family in with Mycroft _literally_ on a leash to keep him calm John was already sipping on his favorite drink.

“You’re calm,” Lestrade commented in surprise.

“They let me assist,” John stated softly, “He’s going to survive but…”

John glanced at Mycroft and then up at Lestrade, “Maybe we should talk in private?”

Lestrade opened his mouth to agree but Mycroft was a step ahead of them as usual, “He’s lost his uterus.”

“Yeah,” John nodded.

“Then I’m staying,” Mycroft stated firmly, sitting himself down, “My brother will need me when he wakes up. You Alphas never know how to handle these sorts of things. John, be a dear and pass me a diet?”

John handed him his drink and welcomed the nearest child into his lap. It was Aiden, apparently. He was ambivalent about being held, but this time he sat still and let John fuss over him. Rupert was standing by his father looking both confused and as if he were trying to be strong. When his father sat down with a sigh he remained standing. The youngest twins were in Mycroft’s arms, but John didn’t tell him to send them out. If Mycroft thought it was okay for Sherlock to see the last children he’d carried than it was. The rest of the kids took chairs and set about fidgeting until Lestrade gave in and turned on some cartoons.

“Turn off that inane drivel,” Sherlock croaked an hour later.

“Hello love,” John soothed, stroking his hair while avoiding the bump on his head, “You’ve had an accident and been through surgery. You’re going to be just fine. Everyone is here. Mycroft wants to talk to you about something.”

“Everything is loud, therefore I’ve been concussed. I feel numb spots and bloating below my waist… so my surgery was in my abdomen.”

“Yeah,” John admitted, and then glanced at Mycroft. He made no move. Said no words. John was just starting to become frantic and think up something further to say when Sherlock started to speak.

“Brother, how can I ever apologize enough?” Sherlock asked, his voice angry rather than conciliatory, “I’ve ruined your chance to have more children.”

“It’s enough, Sherlock. You’ve given me enough,” Mycroft replied, “And I’ve most certainly taken enough. We’ve waited years now; it is unlikely we would have tried again anyway. Age, my dear brother. You’re starting to grey at the temples.”

“It looks fantastic!” John snapped angrily.

Sherlock smiled. Mycroft moved a child into a more propped position and then reached out to grip Sherlock’s hand. John watched a single tear run down Sherlock’s cheek, but his eyes remained closed and he seemed composed. They never spoke of it again and John never had the courage to ask what was done with Mycroft’s remaining four eggs.

When they were released from the hospital John settled Sherlock into their rooms and then sat down on the edge of his bed. John made sure Sherlock was comfortable and then took his hand in his own.

“What are your orders?” John asked, voice deep with anger, “I’ll go and thrash the hide off of them if you give the word.”

Sherlock smiled, “Good man! I do need your help. A helpmate of mine, Shinwell Johnson.”

“Yes?” John asked, recalling Sherlock mentioning him recently as a helper for when John was too busy and the cases not overly dangerous. He’d yet to meet the Beta, though.

“Get in touch with him _discreetly_. He’s aware of an informant of mine who he’s been protecting- hopefully- since I was hospitalized. I need to know if she’s still alive. She’s my only hope to get to… well, never mind that.”

“What?” John asked in shock.

“What I need most from you is to liven up the complaints on my health. Nothing could be more important. I must be known to be on the edge of death.”

“You’re keeping me out of this? After you’ve been _hurt_? I’m to be your errand boy?” John asked, shocked and hurt.

Sherlock winced, “I don’t want you looking too deeply into this. My client is… illustrious in the extreme. If you were to find out this persons identity, as I already suspect it, there could be a great deal of imbalance in our lives.”

“Then I won’t pry,” John snapped, “But for gods’ sake, don’t shut me out! You were nearly killed!”

“Good! Good!” Sherlock cheered, “That’s perfect! Put it that way when you talk to people! Everyone and anyone could be his tail!”

John groaned and rubbed his hands over his face, “Okay. Just. Fill me in.”

“My contact first,” Sherlock insisted, “Get a hold of Johnson and _then_ I’ll fill you in.”

John nodded and hurried off to make his contact, knowing that Mycroft’s usual hide-aways would be the best. He met Johnson in a warehouse and told him to hide Sherlock’s informant and hide her well. The man was firm on the fact that the woman in question was in hiding. He was also covered in love bites and looked a bit exhausted. John figured she wasn’t bored in her hideaway. Recalling Sherlock’s instruction he mentioned to Johnson that Sherlock was on deaths door and did his best to look pale and devastated. Johnson turned a bit pale as well and gripped John’s hand tightly.

“We’ll catch the bastard. He won’t get away with this. Or with hurting any other Betas ever again.”

John nodded and headed home with a suspicion in his mind which was confirmed when he sat down to receive Sherlock’s explanation.

“I received a letter implying that Baron Gruner might be responsible for Mary’s sudden change in behavior a few years ago.”

“When Mrs. Hudson died,” John pointed out angrily, “Sherlock, she…”

“John, shut up,” Sherlock sighed angrily, “Let me explain. I received a missive, very mysterious, but on _authentic_ paper straight out of Buckingham Palace! I have no idea who forwarded the information to me, but they insist that Baron Gruner is a dangerous man. I had already known about his last wife; she was murdered by his hand but he was acquitted and then fled before he could be hunted down for other crimes. On the surface his vices seem to be gambling, but if you look _deeper_ you’ll find a far more vicious and cruel pattern. No, it’s _women_ he truly likes to make bets on. Beta women, to be specific. He lures them in, seduces them physically and emotionally, and then takes them apart bit by bit. He’s cruel in the extreme, destroying them completely until they are a fraction of who they once were. Under his hand they abandon family, friends, spouses, charges, everything and everyone. Then he leaves them a wreck of the person they once were, _if_ he even leaves them alive.”

“And you’re saying that this brute has his claws in Mary? Is there evidence besides the letter?”

“Only her own word,” Sherlock replied with a snort and then a wince of pain, “More morphine.”

John fetched it and gently replaced Sherlock’s bag, “You’ve only got a bit left. Your former habit means they won’t give you much.”

“I’m aware. Thank you,” Sherlock snapped irritably, “Listen. Gruner is responsible for this. He threatened me…”

“He figured out you were on his trail?” John asked in concern.

“He didn’t have to. I told him. I wanted to assess this man who was said to be as brilliant as I am. I sent my card ahead and then sat down to question him. I was only able to get as far as his first office, one filled with Chinese vases, but I was informed by my informant-“

“They do that,” John smirked.

“Shut up, that was the morphine talking. My informant told me there is a second office where he keeps a notebook in a safe. That notebook contains the records of his ‘hunting trips’ through each and every Beta, including ones that have not come to light. He could be put away for life with the contents of that book, but there is no legal way to get a hold of it. He has committed no crime in Britain and his pursuers are all out of pursuit.”

“Maybe I should lower your dose,” John wondered, glaring up at the drip.

“Shut up. That sounded cool and you know it.”

“ _Definitely_ lowering your dose.”

“Just make me sound sick to everyone you know. _Scare_ them, John. Tell them my head wound has damaged my mind.”

“I’m wondering if it did,” John worried.

“Do it without being a twat!” Sherlock snapped.

“Okay! Okay! What else?”

“He _bragged_ to me, John. _Bragged_. He says he’s hypnotized Mary and that nothing will move her. I got her to sit down with me and laid down the facts, but she was cold towards me in a way that I’ve never seen from her. She stared me down and told me she was aware of his failings, that she was sure he repented his crimes, and that she loved him in spite of it. Then she called me foul names for trying to besmirch a man who ‘has truly changed into a good person’, as she so ridiculously put it.”

John shook his head, “She’s got it bad.”

“Worse. She only even agreed to see me because he gave her leave, which he only did because it amused him to do so. I won’t be able to get to her again. She’s locked up in his townhouse. Literally.”

John flinched, recalling all to well his own time as a prisoner to a madman. Sherlock’s hand sought out his own and squeezed his fingers gently.

“We’ll get her free, John. We will. My informant is a former mistress. She’s been reduced to a streetwalker because of him and has sworn revenge. She’s as dedicated to tearing this monster down as I am. Go on now. Fetch me my makeup kit and then go and besmirch my health to the world.”

John spent some time shopping for medical gear for taking care of an invalid while wearing face paint that Sherlock had carefully applied to make him look wane and sickly. A Perfect Match would be starting to feel the strain of a dying Mate at this point. People snapped shots of John wherever he went and his phone wouldn’t stop alerting him to all the buzz online. John made a show of stopping and sitting whenever a bench was available, as if he were too exhausted to continue. At one point he paused at a lawyer’s office on the way home and went in to ask about a Will. It hit the internet before he even touched the doorknob. In fact, he was fairly certain he heard the lawyer take a picture. Of his ass. John hoped he enjoyed it because he was certainly not coming back.

By the time he got back home even Mycroft was worried.


	59. Chapter 59

BG 12, Aiden 10.5, Rupert 11, A&V 10, W&J 5      
  
  
John walked into his house to find Sherlock’s doorway surrounded by doctors and one frantic Mycroft Holmes.

“John!” Mycroft snapped, “Talk to your Dom! He won’t let the doctors in to see him! He keeps ordering us out!”

“You guys can go,” John smiled at the doctors. They, of course, took his word for it since he smelled like an Alpha. Poor Mycroft was left sputtering in outrage; “Sorry, Mycroft.”

“Sorry?! You’re  _sorry?!_  Have you seen yourself? Something is seriously wrong with Sherlock!”

John grabbed Mycroft’s arm and steered him into the bedroom where Sherlock gave them an annoyed look. He looked exhausted from having repeatedly dominated the doctors and Mycroft. John tugged Mycroft to Sherlock’s bedside and gave his mate a quick peck on the lips.

“You want to tell your terrified brother what’s going on?” John asked.

“I’m not  _terrified!_ ” Mycroft snapped, blushing brightly.

“No,” Sherlock decided.

“Sherlock,” John warned, “He’s  _worried_  about you.”

Sherlock sighed. Their bitter rivalry might be over but they often still picked on each other. Finally Sherlock gave in and explained what was going on to Mycroft, who looked pleased at John’s make-up and Sherlock’s overall plan.

“Now what?” Mycroft asked, “I assume you send John in, disguised, with a knowledge of Chinese pottery?”

“Precisely,” Sherlock nodded sharply before wincing and rubbing at his temple.

“What?” John asked, anxiously fluffing his pillow and pressing more acetophenomine on him, “Why would I need to know anything about…”

“Just go to the study and do the research. Learn everything, John,” Sherlock emphasized, stroking his cheek with one finger, “I need you to be an expert. Pull this off and I’ll fuck you into next week the moment I’m back on my feet.”

John gave Sherlock’s finger a lick and Mycroft scoffed in disgust, though John could see the happiness and relief in his eyes. Then he hurried away to gather up some information, cramming it like he had in med school. When he felt he’d memorized everything he possibly could and could speak on the subject with authority he returned to Sherlock’s bedroom. There he found his lover on his feet and fully dressed to impress.

“Sherlock,” John growled, seeing red, “Get back in that bed or so help me…”

“Relax, John,” Sherlock soothed, walking towards him with no apparent limp, “May I remind you that my ailments were mostly pretense? I’m in no worse state than after a cesaerian section.”

“That’s not true, you lost  _two feet of intestines_  and…”

“And now I shit twice a day instead of once,” Sherlock shrugged, “You always said I was full of shit, now it’s been expedited.”

John groaned in frustration and Sherlock chuckled, bussing his cheek, “I’ll be fine. I’m only directing this play, not acting in it. That’s why I need you, my darling Alpha, to be my strong limbs. Play the part well and no one will even be in danger. All you need do is say your lines while another patriot of ours works her magic.”

“Your informant?”

“Kitty Winter.”

“Kitty?” John asked.

“Familiar? Kitty Riley married our distinguished psychopath, much to her horror. The false name of Winter she decided to keep to remind her of her error. She has since been forced to the streets to perform lip service of a different sort.”

“She’s a  _prostitute_?” John asked in shock.

“And sadly not a good one from what her clients say.”

“Pity that,” John frowned.

“So, she’s used to snooping. We’ll be fine,” Sherlock pressed a heated kiss to his lips that reminded him who he belonged to and just what he had to look forward to, “Onward my soldier.”

John purred a bit, nuzzling Sherlock’s jaw. It was fantastic that after so long they could still be so deeply in love, but he was absolutely mad for Sherlock. The man said jump he said how high. Sherlock gave an order and John ran off to obey without questioning him, knowing that whatever mad scheme Sherlock had in line was going to work or that they’d fix it together afterwards.

“Now here’s what you’re going to do, my darling Alpha,” Sherlock growled into his ear, living John shivering with desire and eagerly listening up as his cock was palmed through his trousers.

XXX

An hour later John stepped into Gruner’s first study, noting the door behind him, and shook his hand before admiring the pottery around him with wide eyes.

“Dr. Hill Barton, Chinese pottery is a bit of a hobby of mine,” John explained, “My, my, my, this  _is_  a collection! How beautiful! You had all this shipped in? Is that  circa 1402?”

“You have a good eye,” Baron Gruner replied, puffing up his chest with pride, “That’s my prized piece.”

“I’d love to purchase it if I could, but I’m afraid I’m only here to sell.”

“That’s for the best,” Gruner chuckled, the charm full on, “Seeing as how I would  _never_  part with it. But enough chatter, let me see your piece.”

John opened a hat box and removed several layers of wrapping before pulling out a gorgeous clay pot, the tint gently restored. It was a loan from a museum that Sherlock had salvaged pieces from. They had handed it over to him with a promise of return and no small amount of trepidation, but their gratitude had outweighed their fears.

“Is that…?” The man gasped.

“Tang  _sancai_  burial ware,” John admired the piece in his hand.

“May I?” Gruner asked.

“Of course,” John replied, though he handed it over with understandable reluctance. To Gruner it would seem like a personal concern rather than a professional one.

“Wherever did you come across this?”

“Oh, I have my methods,” John fake preened, “All legal, of course. I’m reluctant to part with this, but I recently came up with a shortage of funds so…”

“You’re a medical doctor?” Gruner asked, suddenly looking suspicious.

“I am. Sadly my practice isn’t doing well. My specialists is out on maternity leave and one of my nurses just ran away to be bonded. Omegas,” John sighed in mock disgust, “Always luring Omegas off with promises of babies. Yet we adore them so…”

“Indeed,” Gruner asked, “Tell me… what province would this have been fired in?”

John blinked as if surprised, “Henan.”

“And what was the first to be used in the palace for imperial services?”

“Ding ware,” John replied, “I’m surprised at you, sir. A collector of your caliber should know these things.”

So saying he reached across to remove the pot from his hand as if offended by his touch, but the man stood up slowly with narrowed eyes.

“You’ve studied well,” Gruner stated coldly, “You almost had me fooled. Sadly you’ve given yourself away.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about!” John snapped angrily, “Return that to my possession or pay me for its purchase, otherwise I’ll call the police!”

“Oh, go right ahead,” The man chuckled, “Your Omega already made an attempt at having my office searched and they failed to find anything illegal.”

John’s heart fell. He hadn’t known that part.

“The pot,” John replied, tone steely as he held out his hand, “Or they’ll find theft quite compelling.”

“I think not,” The man sneered, “I think you’ll find  _this_  quite compelling.”

John’s training had never gotten rusty, not while living with Sherlock Holmes. Yet he still found himself staring down the barrel of a gun that looked nearly as antique as the pottery around him.

“Does that even fire?” He asked, unable to keep the sass to himself.

“Care to…” Gruner’s reply was cut off when they both heard a loud slam from the room behind his desk.

John’s brain cast about for a solution before Gruner could run into the room, but his hand was already on the doorknob.

“Help!” John shouted, “Murder! MURDER! HELP!”

Gruner turned on him in a rage, but stalled him by tossing the pot into the air. John instinctively dove to recover it and the man flew into the room. John swore at his own stupidity, vaulted the desk, and ran into the room in time to see Gruner reel away from the window screaming in pain. This time it was John’s medical instinct that kicked in as he recognized the danger in the area he was clasping.

 _His eyes_.

John barely registered the sight of Sherlock and Kitty Winter- the former Ms. Riley looking decades older and far smuttier- fleeing from the window with a bound book in Sherlock’s hands. A packet in the hands of the former Mrs. Winter must have been the culprit.

John helped Gruner to a nearby couch and laid him down, pulling his hand away as he wailed in agony. His eyes were already white, indicating corneal damage. The corrosive powder was working at his skin, turning it white and puckered. He quickly fetched water and utilized the clean portion of the man’s own clothing to wash the water from his skin in the hopes of delaying the damage. He called 999 and held Gruner’s hand while he sobbed in pain. Where John had at first been his adversary, now he was his hope as the man pleaded with him to do whatever he could to save his precious life.

When John finally finished giving his statement to the police after the ambulance left with Gruner he was left to report home. Sherlock sat in his bed looking quite smug despite the admitted setback.

“I had no idea Kitty had brought such a weapon along,” Sherlock sighed in frustration, “It’s sure we were seen and he’ll likely press charges.”

“Still, his face being mangled like that will turn Mary away,” John replied hopefully, “And we’re sure to avoid the charges. You’ve yet to be pulled in for any other of your stunts.”

“True,” Sherlock nodded, “But only to the latter statement. An ugly mug won’t dissuade our Mary. She’s going to need to see this book. Sadly she’ll nto see me again, so I’ll leave it up to Aiden.”

“Aiden?!” John asked in alarm.

“Of course,” Sherlock blinked, “He’s old enough for a safe task like that. Give him the book and drive him to Mary’s.”

John nodded miserably and headed out the door to locate his second son. Aiden was quite unconcerned with his task, simply nodding his head and following his father out the door. Mary wouldn’t let him in when John knocked on the door, so Aiden went in alone while John anxiously paced outside the door. Eventually it was flung open and a wailing Mary fell into his arms. John managed to get her back inside where he sat her down and rocked her as she sobbed her heart out. John glanced at the table where Mrs. Hudson had so often served him tea and saw the book open to a page titled ‘Mary Morstan’.

John glanced at Aiden who sat on a nearby floral chair sipping milk and eating buscuits as if the world were completely right by him.

“Aiden?” John asked.

“Yeah, dad.”

“Did you read anything in this book?”

“Yes,” Aiden replied easily. He rarely saw a reason to lie, he was simply straightforward if he did something wrong and took his punishment if it happened.

“I want you to make me a promise.”

“Okay.”

“Promise me that you will never treat anyone- not even your enemies- the way that man treated Mary.”

Aiden paused with a milk saturated glob of chocolate and pastry halfway to his mouth. His eyes slid down to John’s lap where Mary sobbed as though her heart had been ripped from her heart. His eyebrows furrowed and then he lowered his treat, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, placed his hands in his lap, and nodded once.

“I promise, daddy. I will  _never_  treat anyone like that. Ever.”

“Good lad.”

Mary sniffled and sat up a bit, looking over her shoulder at Aiden before looking back up at John.

“You’ve got such wonderful children,” She told him, “Can you ever forgive me?”

“I can,” John replied, “Sherlock and Mycroft might be another matter. You’ve not been kicked out of the pack, by the way. Greg is worried to death about you.”

“May I go see him?”

“Sure,” John nodded, “Let’s go together.”

When John arrived back at the house he found the entire of both families assembled in the library waiting for him. Mary walked in, trembling as her sobs started up again. Lestrade was seated at the head chair beside the fire, Sherlock across from him on an ottoman posing prim and proper as the Pack Omega despite the fact they weren’t married to each other. They both gave off the aura of royalty and pride. On the nearby loveseat sat Mycroft with all the children surrounding him, the youngest two sitting in his lap with the next youngest two on either side of him and the rest at his feet. John managed to walk awkwardly over to Sherlock’s side and kneel down beside him, hand on his thigh. Mary headed straight for Lestrade and dropped to her knees, clearly intending on begging. Lestrade leaned forward, captured her chin, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

“Not me, love,” Lestrade told her softly.

Mary hesitated a moment, and then turned towards Sherlock. The Omega Dom had become the Pack Omega after dominating his brother years ago. It was an unusual arrangement as the Pack Omega was normally the spouse of the Pack Alpha, but it worked for their large and powerful pack. Many an Omega and Alpha alike knew they could go to Sherlock if Lestrade was indisposed.

“I’m sorry,” Mary pleaded, folding her hands as her mascara ran down her cheeks, “I’m so sorry. I’ve never been more sorry in my life. Sorry for what I said, sorry for what I did, sorry for how I treated your children. Please.  _Please_  forgive me.”

Sherlock leaned down and bussed her forehead before nodding towards Mycroft. Mary shamelessly crawled towards him, her attitude completely displaced from the clothes she wore. The children parted and she broke down at the sight of Mycroft’s angrily raised eye. He would be harder to sway. He didn’t have the Dom softness for begging that Sherlock did. His focus was even more on his children than Sherlock’s was. He held his toddlers in his lap and scowled down at her, unforgiving and unrelenting.

For nearly an hour Mycroft stared her down, passing his children off to John for diaper changes and then possessively taking them back without breaking eye contact with her. Mary was a mess, sobbing and shaking at his feet while she begged for forgiveness. John was starting to ache for her, his Alpha instincts telling him to comfort her in her distraught state. Lestrade was no better off, literally sweating where he sat with his expression carefully schooled. She was past the breaking point, past the point where any Dom would call a halt if the Sub had been too emotionally wrecked to do so. Past the point where she should have safeworded out. Even Sherlock’s jaw was tightly locked.

 _The children are watching this. It’s not okay. I’ve got to get them out of this, but they’ve already seen too much. Leave them to see the resolution and hope lessons are learned or take them out and explain to them that Mycroft didn’t handle it right? Teach them that their parent is flawed at such a young age?_   _How the fuck do I handle this?_

Sherlock’s hand rested on his shoulder and John looked up to see the barest head shake from his Dom.

 _Trust him_ , Sherlock mouthed, and John nodded and buried his face in his Dom’s leg. He breathed in that beautiful Omega scent and waited. Mary had regained her voice nearby, and uttered two words that changed it all.

“Daddy, please!”

John’s head shot up and Sherlock took in a surprised breath and held it. Mycroft slipped both toddlers into BG’s arms and slid down onto his knees on the floor. Mary threw her arms around his neck and he held her tightly, rocking her gently and petting her hair while making soft, soothing noises. Mary went limp against him, sniffling and sobbing softly until her misery faded away. When Mycroft nodded to Lestrade it was to bring him over to lift the sleeping woman. Mycroft told John to get the children into bed, but Sherlock volunteered instead and hurried out with a clear need to hold them. John let him go and stood uselessly to one side.

“Redress her, please?” Mycroft asked, “Those close are unbecoming of a Little.”

Lestrade nodded, but hesitated before carrying her away, “What’s going on here, My? What’s she to us now?”

“A child, as she needs to be. BG can be trained to care for the younger children. He’s twelve and more than mature and responsible enough. Mary’s responsibilities end now. She’s had enough.”

“Okay… what is she to me if you’re her Daddy? What’s she to you? I don’t share your body. Not with anyone.”

John was surprised at the softness in his voice. He was stating facts, not becoming overly possessive and emotional. Mycroft simply nodded calmly.

“If you want her body I’m fine with that. I’ve no interest in a physical relationship with her. Take her away, please. Our bed is acceptable unless you would prefer she remain in a guest bedroom. She’ll be living here either way. Mrs. Hudson’s flat will become a play area for the children so BG has all he needs to care for them. Mary may keep whatever she likes from it, but she will not be living there again. It isn’t healthy.”

Greg nodded, pressed a kiss to his Omega’s lips, and headed upstairs with the passed out Beta in his arms. John hurried over to Mycroft who surprised him by pulling him in for a tight hug.

“You okay?”

“Fine. Fine. Just needed an Alpha’s scent, and Gregory was indisposed. John, will you check on her?”

“Of course,” John nodded, stepping back and clasping Mycroft’s hands, “She might be dehydrated. I’ll get right on caring for her. I have permission to enter your bedroom?”

“Of course,” Mycroft nodded with a laugh, “We’re past that formal nonsense, aren’t we?”

“Sorry,” John chuckled, “We’re just a bit… I needed some structure for a mo’ there.”

Mycroft hugged him again and then stepped back with a bemused smile, “Look at us. Hm? We’re the most mad pack in England, but we work.”

“Now don’t sell us short,” John laughed as he headed to the door, “We’re at  _least_  the most mad pack in all Britain.”

 


	60. Chapter 60

BG 14, Aiden 13, Rupert 13.5, A&V 12, W&J  7

   
  


A/N –An explanation on names so that this gets  _less_  confusing. Alpha/Dom last names come first (and can be only for the Alpha/Dom) and the Omega/Sub comes second in the hyphen, dropping the maternal name once they marry. So if Joe Smith-Finnigan is an Alpha and Emily Jones-Higgins is an Omega, when they marry their last names will be Joe Smith and Emily Smith-Jones.

 

 “Dad, this is stupid,” BG stated for the third time in the relatively short car ride to St. Barts.

John tried not to grind his teeth. He wished Sherlock were there to utilize that brilliant mind of his; like with his spouse, Sherlock could convince BG that an evergreen tree were yellow with pink polka dots if he were so inclined. Hell, he’d probably be able to convince them both that plants were actually mammals and leave them proclaiming the new ‘truth’ to everyone they saw. Instead of wishing for the impossible, John took a deep, steadying breath and tried to reason with his son.

“Gregory, why is it you feel this is stupid?”

“Leave the psycho babble with your shrink, Dad,” BG sighed.

Now John  _did_  grit his teeth. Why were teenagers so damn stubborn?!  _I don’t remember being nearly this much of a little shit when I was fourteen_.

“BG, we’ve been over this…”

“Gregory,” BG corrected his eyes narrowed in warning in a perfect imitation of his Mummy.

“Fine. Gregory. We’ve been over this. It isn’t psycho babble, it’s me trying to communicate with you. I wouldn’t have to be so careful with what I say if you weren’t trying to ignore or avoid me all the time.”

“Doesn’t my trying to avoid and ignore you tell you something?” BG sighed.

“Yeah. That I need to search your room,” John replied without thinking.

The eruption that statement followed made Pompeii look like a fireworks display. John sat in the car in the parking lot of St. Barts, glowering and gripping the steering wheel as he reminded himself several times over that throttling his first-born son was a terrible idea. When he finally got a word in edgewise, his son sulked in the seat like a toddler, his black-on-black wardrobe and Goth make-up causing him to look twice as ridiculous.

“Gregory, I will  _not_  invade your privacy unless you give me a reason- quiet down, a  _good reason-_  to do so. You tell me you’re not doing drugs, that’s fine. Good. I’m glad. Now, let’s focus on why we’re here, yeah?”

“ _Fine_ ,” He replied, with a sigh so heavy John was surprised the windshield didn’t buckle and break.

“Why do you think this testing is stupid?”

“Because it is.”

John was going to need new caps on all his molars by the time this day was over, “Do you know what your sex is?”

It was a valid question. Alphas had far larger penises that could start growing at any point in their adolescence, and Betas became sexually aware far earlier, while Omegas would be uninterested in sex for quite some time. If his son were an Alpha or a Beta he might suspect or even know it, but be to shy to mention it. An external exam would show he was an Alpha, an Omega would show up on an MRI, but a Beta or an underdeveloped Alpha might be a mystery unless the child him/herself had a suspicion.

“No.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s irrelevant.”

“Why is it irrelevant?”

“Because even if I am an Alpha or an Omega I’m not going to breed.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s stupid.”

“Why is it stupid?” John asked, his ears beginning to hurt from all the grinding.

“Sex is gross, boys and girls are gross, Omegas are even more gross with all that fluid leaking stuff, Alphas are all dicks-“ John interrupted his tirade with a snort, which BG ignored, “-And there is no way in hell I’m going to raise an entire fucking mansion full of kids like you and Mum did.”

“What your language, and you’re damn right you aren’t raising a mansion full of kids.”

“Why not?” BG asked, momentarily thrown off by John agreeing with him.

 _Rule of Acquisition #76: Every once in a while, declare peace....it confuses the hell out of your enemies,_ John thought to himself.

“Because your Uncle Mycroft isn’t leaving the mansion to you or any of our kids. He’s leaving it to Rupert.”

BG burst out laughing and John gaped at him, not only because he hadn’t heard his son laugh in a while, but because it seemed an odd time to do so.

“What’s so funny?” John queried.

“Rupert won’t kick me out. I’m going to live with him forever.”

John blinked, “You’re what?”

“I’m going to live with him till I die. Rupert’s going to take care of me. He’s like Uncle Greg.”

“You mean, he’s your pack Alpha.”

“Yeah.”

“Gregory, you know most pack Alphas don’t live with their entire packs like we do. We’re just oddball rich guys. Rupert is going to want an Omega and lots of kids with him or her. He’s going to want you out of his hair, especially if you’re an Alpha.”

BG’s eyes widened and John was shocked to see fear in them as the color drained out of BG’s face.

“But… why?” He asked, sounding younger than he’d looked even when he was sulking.

“Because that’s what our instincts dictate. Unless you have a mate- even if you do but are an Alpha- he’s not going to want competition for his Omega’s attention around. He won’t want an Alpha around his kids until each is a year old…”

“Except family Alphas. I’m his cousin. He’ll let me near his kids. I might not like kids, but I can help out. I’ll be useful!” BG pleaded, his face crinkled in concern.

John winced,  _Is this it? Do I tell him now? Should I ever tell him? What if he’s a Beta and it doesn’t even matter?_

“Well… if you’re a Beta he’ll likely want you to stay, so why don’t we go find out?”

BG didn’t take his eyes off of his father, his face a careful blank as John often saw Sherlock and his other children do when they were trying to keep their emotions under control or hidden. He opened the car door, unbuckled himself, and slid out onto the pavement without breaking eye contact until he was standing. John practically bolted out the door the moment BG’s door slammed shut. He came around and put a supportive hand on his son’s shoulder, but the lad shrugged it off.

The entire way into the hospital John struggled and fought with the horror growing inside of him, grateful that his un-emerged son would be unable to tell that his father was putting of fear scent by the gallon, though he might notice a few turned heads. He didn’t have Sherlock’s deducting skill- that talent belonged to their younger children- but he wasn’t blind either.

_Do I tell him now? What if the first test is inconclusive or shows BG is Alpha or Omega. I’ll have to tell him. Sherlock and I agreed we would, if it ever came down to it. That BG wouldn’t find out when his step-cousins rejected him. What if he IS a Beta? Will we ever tell him then? Would it be right to keep the secret or wrong? What about if the MRI is inconclusive? Should I let the doctor tell him after the genetic testing is done, or tell him myself? Definitely myself. He doesn’t deserve to hear that from a stranger, even a professional one. Gods, how will he take it? He’ll have questions. He’ll want to know why I would cheat on the man he’s thought of as his Mother for his entire life. He’s going to want to know who is real Mum is. I can’t tell him that, can I? So, do what? Make it up? Lie? Tell him the truth and hope he doesn’t blab it to anyone and get us incarcerated? Maybe I can tell him it was Molly. He’s grown up knowing about her, it wouldn’t be so strange to hear his Dad had an office romance and then Sherlock and I raised him after she died._

John glanced sideways at his son to be met with a suspicious look and a raised eyebrow. John swallowed and looked forward again. He couldn’t lie to his son. Not just for moral reasons, but because the little bastard ( _Bad term! Baaaaad term!!)_ would see right through it.

They had arrived at the radiology ward and John pushed the door open and pointed for BG to sit down. He did one of those things where he was instantly obedient and sat down. Twelve to sixteen was when most children started to show their tendencies, their Dom, Sub, or Switch side coming out in asexual ways as they started forming small packs and responding to their parents as temporary leaders. BG seemed to be a Switch, occasionally obeying his parents without argument but then turning around and having verbal dominance battles with his Mother over something as stupid as picking up his book from the floor. That pointed to Beta, but there were rare Alphas and Omegas who were born Switches or just showed the tendency to be so until they fully emerged when their sexuality developed between 18 and 25; and woe be it to the parent who didn’t find out for sure and ended up with a pregnant 18 year old Omega, round with some stranger’s babies because they’d gone into heat in the middle of the cinema and every Alpha in the vicinity had pounced on them.

John filled out the requisite forms, even though their family doctor had forwarded over everything the people there needed to know. Then he turned in the clipboard and sat down to stare at the wall with BG.

“I don’t want to leave Holmes Manor,” BG stated softly, “It’s my home.”

“Yeah, I know, honey,” John replied softly, and was awarded with one of those increasingly rare moments when BG allowed him to put an arm around him and awkwardly comfort him.

The nurse called BG’s legal name and the boy disconnected from his father as though burnt. He all but bolted for the room indicated and John stood outside awkwardly as the lad changed into a gown. He was placed on a bed and wheeled into another room that John also stood outside of uncomfortably. Then he was wheeled back to the first one and a doctor came in to do a physical exam. He could hear BG hiss in discomfort through part of the exam, and fought down his Alpha instincts to go rushing in to protect his ‘cub’.

“You seem very healthy, Gregory. Tell me, how long have you been sexually active.”

“I… I mucked about once with a mate, but it wasn’t serious. Neither of us could get it up, but he said he could sometimes. We used a toy he’d found in his sister’s room.”

John slapped himself in the forehead. He did  _not_  need to know that about his son, and he was more than a bit revolted. The doctor mentioned that BG should get tested for STI’s since he hadn’t put a condom over the toy first. BG was horrified and said he hadn’t known to. The doctor spent a good ten minutes going over safe sex in more detail than John had with his boy. He also explained that if this friend of BG’s was able to get erections he was likely either a Beta or an Alpha, and that if he was an Alpha he might become very large when aroused and could injure BG if not careful. BG stated that he knew that from school and promised to be more careful. The doctor exited the room and confired with John.

“With your permission I’d like to give him a Beta kit whether he turns out to be one or not. Most boys his age aren’t experimenting, but if he’s starting to I want him prepared.”

“He’s more likely to be Alpha or Beta if he’s showing an interest in sex, right?”

The doctor nodded and gave him a hopeful smile and then left. John didn’t bother to mention to either the doctor or his blushing son that BG had been decrying the revoltingness of sex not half an hour ago. They sat awkwardly in the room until the doctor returned with a frown on his face.

“I’m afraid the tests were inconclusive,” The doctor stated as he pinned up two images and held a roll of more out to John, “If you look here you see the wider hips of an Omega, but the larger seminal sack of an Alpha. Now, this does present in Betas, but it is fairly rare and an Alpha can have wider hips on occasion- though usually they’re only Alpha Females. I understand there’s an Alpha Female in your family?”

John nodded and BG imitated him as he stared blankly at the two pictures.

“Well, we’ve ruled out a gender issue,” the doctor stated, “His testicles appear healthy and to be capable of fluid production, that wouldn’t be the case if they were distended ovaries.”

“Uhhhh,” BG gaped, his eyes going wide.

“That’s a good thing, BG,” John comforted with a pat on the lad’s shoulder, “It means you aren’t female despite looking male. That can happen sometimes, and it usually doesn’t get found out until now, if ever.”

“Okaaaay,” BG replied, letting the nickname slide in favor of being grossed out by this new information.

“We’re going to have to run a DNA test to get a proper look at his chromosomes and determine his sex that way,” The doctor concluded, “We can also rule out or find and treat any underlying genetic issues which might be present, assuming you two didn’t do genetic testing in vitro. I can take that test now and we’ll have the results to you in a week.”

John nodded, his face going pale as he realized this was it. He had to tell his son the truth: the horrible, ugly truth that would change his life and his relationship with his siblings and cousins forever.  _Hey, son, you know those boys you’ve been sharing a room with your entire life? Well, they’re only your_ half _brothers…_   _Gods! This is a nightmare!!_

**Unidentifiable. Doing genetic tests. Tell the kids. – JW**

**Understood. – M**

**What does that mean ‘unidentifiable’? Are they doctors or morons? Is something wrong with BG? – SH**

**No, he’s fine as far as they know. His body is still in between. We can wait a year and try again, have them do genetic testing, or wait till he emerges and hope no babies come out of it. I opted for genetic testing since that’s the most expedient route and this has been put off enough. – JW**

**Fine, but they’re still morons. – SH**

They were silent the entire way home, but John detoured and went to 221B instead of home and BG gave him a suspicious look. John didn’t want to do this in front of BG’s siblings, and there was no place that wasn’t susceptible to prying ears in the large manor they called home. John unlocked the office/flat and headed upstairs with BG in tow. It had been a number of years since Mrs. Hudson had passed away peacefully in her sleep, but John still listened for her fondly whenever he walked into the building. Mary still kept 221A and was now running the Café out front, having bought it out with a loan from Mycroft. She was a shrewd businesswoman and John admired the beautiful Little all the more for it.

John flopped down on the sofa Sherlock kept as his meditation spot during cases and BG sat on the coffee table and folded his hands in his lap.

“What is it?” BG asked, his face anxious.

_It doesn’t matter if he isn’t Sherlock’s blood. He’s been raised by him, and there’s no pulling the wool over on a Holmes!_

“BG… Gregory… there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it and you can ask me anything you want after. I just ask that you don’t get angry. We kept it from you for your own good, but there’s no use keeping it from you now. I want you to know, first and foremost, that Sherlock and I both love you very much. So do Uncle Greg and Uncle Mycroft.”

“I’m adopted, aren’t I?” BG asked, eyes going wide, “Rupert tried to tell me but…”

“Rupert’s only half right,” John sighed, unsurprised that the budding Alpha had picked up on BG’s status, though he might have just been being cruel, “Sherlock isn’t your biological Mother. I’m your father, though, and Sherlock  _does_  think of you as his. He’s told me so a thousand times. You’re his son, through and through, in mannerisms and intelligence and all!”

BG had been starring at him with wide, hurt, and anxious eyes through John’s hurried speech, but now he just dropped his eyes and stared at his twiddling thumbs.

“Do I have to move out if I’m an Alpha?” BG asked.

John winced. They’d discussed this, too. If BG turned out to be anything but a Beta it wouldn’t be good for him to stay in the Manor with his un-biologically related cousins. Someone would either end up pregnant or brutalized in a dominance battle. There were  _reasons_ unrelated children didn’t live together past fifteen!

“We’re considering moving back here…”

“I don’t want to live in this crummy place!” BG shouted, jumping to his feet and bursting into tears, “I want to live in Holmes Manor with Rupert! He’s my pack Alpha! How could you do this to me?! How could you do this to  _Sherlock?!_ ”

John smothered down the anguish he was feeling and focused on his distraught teenager. He knew that panicked look, the hyperventilation kicking in. BG was a Sub in panic at the moment and John had to handle him like one, un-emerged or not. He grabbed BG by one arm and dragged him across his knees, brought his hand down sharply on his bottom three times and then pulled both arms behind the boys back. He pinned his wrists together on the small of his back and put the other between his shoulder blades. Then he closed his eyes and focused on keeping the lad still while he screamed, sobbed, kicked, thrashed, and begged. Finally the boy stilled, gasping for breath before slowly relaxing, his forehead resting on the couch.

John gently helped him stand, turned him around, and sat him in his lap like a small child. BG curled up and tucked his head beneath John’s chin, letting his father hold him tightly. This was the first time John had punished BG physically in his entire life. He was generally a good boy, but even when he wasn’t John had a three-step escalation: verbal scolding, time out, followed by you wait _until your Mum gets home!_  John and Sherlock’s roles had always been muddled, but Sherlock was all Dom so discipline was his area. John desperately wished that Sherlock were here now to handle this situation, but Sherlock would have his hands full calming down all of their own kids.

“There’s my boy, there’s my  _good_  boy. I love you so much, BG, m oldest son, nearly a man now, and my brave boy. I know this is a shock. I know you’re upset, but you  _must_  be calm and behave. It’s ‘Mum’, not Sherlock, you know he’ll paddle you till you’re black and blue if he hears you talking like that. Sherlock  _loves_  you, and he accepted me back before you were even born. He’s your Mum, like it or not.”

“Before I was… you  _cheated on him?!”_ BG squealed, squirming free and standing again.

John winced, “Not exactly.”

“Oh, so you just fell on some Omega’s uterus?!”

“Sit down, calm down, and let me explain,” John pleaded, hating the Submissive side of him in that moment.

“Who’s my real… my  _birth_  mum? Didn’t she want me?” BG’s voice ended on a squeak, a look of fear and pain on his face.

“He was sick, BG. He wasn’t right. He hurt me  _badly_  and he would have hurt you, too. You know Sherlock and I aren’t…” John stopped himself from saying ‘not normal’, “You know we’ve got atypical dynamics, right?”

“Yeah, most kids parents are Dom and Alpha, Sub and Omega. You and Mum are opposites. I know what it means from school,” BG blushed and sat back down on the coffee table, “That you guys are… _deviants_.”

“Well, it’s not like we chose it,” John sighed, hating the school system at that point, “In fact I hated it for a  _long_  time. Sherlock thrived for the most part but your Mum… he’d never admit it, but he was _lonely_. We took a long time to get together, Gregory. And in that interim I met someone else. When I realized it was your Mum I loved I left him, but he tricked Sherlock into dumping me and then took advantage of me while I was falling apart without him.”

Gregory looked shocked, he’d always known John as a soldier, a crime solver, and a father; now he was finding out that his father had been a victim at one point as well. Well, John had no intention of telling BG  _everything._

“I’m sorry,” John stated, not really sure what he was apologizing for. BG looked away, shame flickering through his eyes, and John’s heart broke a little bit more.

“So what happened to him?”

“He’s dead,” John replied, hatred in his voice, “And good riddance to him. He died giving birth to you and, frankly, I considered it a birthday present from you.”

BG snorted and John smiled.

“What’s going to happen now?”

“We need to find out what sex you are. If… if you aren’t a Beta we’ll have to move.”

He hoped Sherlock was handling this well, but he was expecting to come home to a lot of sore-bottomed children. As it was BG was starting to tear up again, but this time he slid into his father’s lap willingly rather than by force. John took BG’s arms and pinned them to his sides, holding him tightly to give BG the feeling of safety and security that came with being restrained- letting him relinquish control of even his emotions. BG laid his head on John’s shoulder and sobbed brokenly until he fell asleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

John returned home late that evening with a somber BG gripping his hand like a younger boy, his innocent brow creased with worry. Everyone was gathered in the family room, youngest cross legged on the floor while the oldest sat on the couch. Mycroft, Lestrade, and Sherlock were all seated in their usual chairs. John stepped in, feeling eyes darting from him to BG and back.

It was Rupert who stood first, his eyes dark and flashing like his Mother’s usually did. He strolled across the room to BG with his head raised aristocratically. BG shrank in on himself, despite being six inches taller than his younger ‘cousin’.

“We aren’t related by blood,” Rupert stated, his voice similar to Mycroft’s in tone and inflection, “We are not cousins.”

“We’ve grown up together,” BG replied softly, “Shared games, food, clothes, toys... you’re my pack Alpha.”

“I  _am_  your pack Alpha,” Rupert stated, his chin rising so high that he looked down his nose at BG, “So I’m going to solve this.”

“Rupert,” Lestrade growled a warning, “I’m still your pack Alpha until you two emerge.”

Rupert snorted, but completely ignored his father otherwise. Lestrade probably should have acted on that, but the pride in his eyes told John why he didn’t.

Until Rupert shot forward, grabbed BG by his shirt, and bit his neck hard enough to draw blood. The second Rupert released him John grabbed his son and sniffed at his neck, waiting for the scent to change. It took a moment, and by the time he looked up to confirm his suspicions the rest of the family had gathered around.

“Married,” John gaped, “They’re married.”

“Not quite,” Rupert replied, pushing his uncle aside, “My turn.”

“But… but…” BG stammered, his eyes wide with confusion.

Rupert cocked his head to the side and tugged his collar down, showing his neck: “If you’re married you don’t have to leave the house. Just like Aiden and Teodor, you’ll be my bondmate as soon as we’re both old enough to mate, and the marriage bond will hold off your emergence until I emerge- though I’m likely to emerge first anyway. Go on, Gregory. Tuck in.”

“Did you plan this?” John demanded of Sherlock.

“No,” Sherlock replied, a note of pride in his voice for his nephew.

Mycroft, however, looked furious: “We still don’t know what Gregory Jr. will emerge as! He could be a Beta, and then this would be useless and my son would be married to someone he can’t reproduce with!”

Rupert laughed out loud, the tone too high to be scary but too maniacal to be a child’s giggle.

“I’m a  _pack_  Alpha!” Rupert laughed, “There’s no doubt about that, even if I  _haven’t_  emerged! If BG is unbreedable, I will simply mate an Omega outside of our marriage.”

All eyes turned on BG who was standing there with a hand on his neck and his eyes wide with hope. BG smiled, leaned forward, and nipped Rupert’s neck. Rupert rolled his eyes and pulled BG’s mouth firmly against his neck.

“Bite until you taste copper,  _husband_.”

BG bit hard, but Rupert’s expression remained bored despite the blood trickling down his collar when BG leaned back. Mycroft leaned forward and sniffed a moment, nodding once Rupert’s scent changed to ‘married’.

“I suppose this does settle things,” Mycroft stated, his eyes turning towards his own husband, “There is no reason for them to leave.”

Lestrade gave the room at large a half smile, proud of his children, nephews, and nieces.

“Well then, I suppose we’d better settle dinner, yeah?” Lestrade suggested.

John took BG and Rupert to the kitchen where they had a fully stocked first aid kit and patched the boys up.

“Can I be the first to congratulate your husband?” John asked Rupert, treating the little Alpha as an adult as he often did instinctively. The brat could probably get away with murder if only John were around.

“I’ll allow it,” Rupert replied with a stately waive.

John pulled his son into his arms and held him tightly.

“Congratulations, Gregory Lestrade-Holmes Jr. I’m very glad you have someone to take care of you now if something happens to your Mum or I,” John whispered.

“I always did,” BG replied softly, his voice choked up. His eyes danced with happy tears as he pulled away and accepted Rupert’s hand.

John watched his son and his son’s husband walk to the dining room, his emotions conflicted. His eldest two sons were  _married_  already. His daughter’s as likely to marry young as their older brothers, simply because they were smart enough to find their bondmates. They had Sherlock’s brilliance and John’s romanticism.

“Gods, I’ll be a grandfather in a few years!”

 


	61. Chapter 61

P&M Ch 62 – BG 17, Aiden 15.5, Rupert 16, A&V 15, W&J 10

 

John was whistling cheerfully as he picked up the supplies for his nephew’s birthday party. Rupert was turning sixteen. Legal age. Officially a man. He’d gotten his GED nearly years ago of course, and he’d married shortly after that, but that was Holmes’ genes for you. So far Rupert, BG, and Aiden were their only married children, but that fact still boggled John’s mind. He’d made the mistake of walking into BG’s room one night, worried about nightmares when he’d heard a sound, only to get an eyeful of the boys experimenting a bit. He’d left in a hurry but made a point to sit them down and remind them about safety with weapons/tools in bed. Next time he passed Aiden’s room and heard similar sounds he’d just hurried past and told Sherlock to talk to him. At least they were all too young to get pregnant.

Having finished purchasing plain  _black_  glass plates and matching everything- it had taken five stores to find them- John returned to the Holmes townhome with a spring in his step.

“We have new plates?” Sherlock asked, picking up a tea cup and staring at it, “It’s hideous. I love it.”

John chuckled, “Rupert. He demanded them. Tried out his Dom voice on me. Didn’t work, of course, but I let him think it did.”

“Not so sure that’s the best idea. You really bought an  _entire_  service for one birthday party?”

“He likes it. He’ll use it someday. I’ll put it away for him.”

Sherlock gave him an odd look, “You’re  _sure_  his Dom voice didn’t work?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John chuckled, “He’d have to be the Pack Alpha. I’m yours, remember?”

John curled into Sherlock’s arms and they spent a moment exploring each other’s mouths, tongues lazily stroking until Sherlock let out a deep, vibrating moan.

“How could I forget?” He purred.

“Later,” John teased, nibbling his bottom lip, “I got a new toy for us when I picked up the usual coming of age stuff from the adult store.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied, leaning in to nibble on John’s earlobe.

“That’s gross. Stop it,” Rupert’s sharp voice snapped out.

Sherlock straightened and gave him a cold stare. The boy shuddered and turned his face away.

“Still got it,” John cheered, bussing Sherlock’s cheek, “Sorry, Ru, you may be a man now, but this is a house  _full_  of Alphas and Doms. You’re just going to have to wait until you grow into your britches.”

“When?” Rupert whinged.

“Soon,” John soothed, “Alphas generally emerge between-”

“Sixteen and twenty-four. I know.”

John ruffled his hair and passed him with a cheery whistle while the lad set about ordering BG to decorate the dining hall for his party. There would be over twenty young men and women coming to Rupert’s Strong Sixteen, nearly twice the turnout they’d had for BG, and he was proud of his contacts. Amongst his honoured guests were the sons and daughters of three politicians, four very successful artists, and six teachers. The teachers surprised John, but he didn’t say anything. Whatever Ru had up his sleeve was sure to be successful. That was just the Holmes way.

“JOHN!” Sherlock shouted. John sighed and hurried back to the dining room where he ended up prying two Rupert and Aiden off of each other.

Sherlock took hold of Aiden, petting his hair and checking him for injuries, while John held Rupert tightly while he snarled and growled. Both his parents were out so it was up to John and Sherlock to discipline him, but right now Sherlock was too far gone in the ‘my baby’ mode to do any discliplinging with a clear head. John dragged Rupert out the door, ignoring his attempts wriggle free, and slammed the little brat against the nearest wall.

“You’re not a fucking  _kid_  anymore, Rupert!” John shouted in his face. Rupert stilled, looking shocked by the sudden violence. Spankings were one thing, but John had  _never_  raised a hand to the children.

“Unc-”

“Shut up!” John shouted, using the voice he used when Sherlock was being a prat and John needed to point it out to him, “Aiden is still legally a child. I  _know_  he’s your packmate, and I know he’s your cousin, but he’s a  _minor_. You can’t rough him up. If he’s being a twat you get his parents. You get _Sherlock or me._  You do  _not_  handle it yourself.”

“And what do you think my Mum would have to say about you slamming me into a wall and shouting in my face?” Rupert asked, his eyes turning calculating.

“I’d say your blood is still outside your skull,” John scoffed, “They trust me to discipline you when necessary.  _Don’t make it necessary_. Get in there and apologize to Sherlock for touching his cub.”

“What?!”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not apologizing for that! We had a dominance battle yesterday and you let it happen!”

“Yesterday you were fifteen. Today you’re sixteen. Now you don’t have dominance battles with your cousin. You order him. If that fails you get someone who can. Got it?”

Rupert looked crestfallen, “Yes sir.”

“Into the dining hall. Sherlock. Apologize. Now.”

“Do I have to apologize to Aiden?” Rupert asked miserably.

John shrugged. Sherlock would handle that. He followed Rupert in and watched while he slung out a half-hearted apology for touching Sherlock’s cub. Aiden piped up with the fact he was only five months younger than Rupert. Sherlock ignored him, accepted Rupert’s apology, and warned him against touching his cub again… with a threat of bodily harm.

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“ _Fine_. I’ll Dom you until you piss yourself. Happy John?”

“Yes,” John nodded.

“To your room, Aiden,” Sherlock ordered.

“Why?!” Aiden whined, “He was the one in the wrong!”

“You’re my flesh and blood,” Sherlock snorted, “You think I don’t know you instigated this? Your room. Now.”

Aiden slouched off and Sherlock gave Rupert a steady look.

“What?” Rupert asked, not squirming beneath his stare.

“You…” Sherlock paused and then gave his head a sudden shake, “Never mind. Let’s try and make this a  _happy_  birthday.”

Sherlock strode past him and Rupert sighed, “It’s not like he’ll even show up.”

John smiled and gave Rupert’s arm a comforting squeeze, “I’ll talk to him, but you know how he is. People.”

“Yes,” Rupert sighed, “Aiden takes after him.”

“He is his son,” John shrugged.

“BG takes after you,” Rupert replied, eyes narrowed.

John shrugged, “He’s  _my_  son.”

“No. I mean he  _completely_  takes after you.”

John froze, “He’s… he’s a Sub? An Alpha Sub, or…”

“Not quite,” Rupert replied, “He’ll tell you when he’s ready. Just be prepared so you  _don’t_  make that horrified face.”

Then Rupert walked away from him and the cut of his shoulders showed he was dismissed. John had been surrounded by enough Holmes men to know that he’d get nowhere if he pressed the issue, so he huffed and stormed off. John changed into more formal clothes and headed to the kitchen to make sure the meal was coming along well. The party would start with tea, move on to a political debate, and then end with a five-course dinner and crème brulee. It was much less a birthday than a coming out party; his very own cotillion.

Mycroft would be waiting on his son and their guests, a symbolic showing of Rupert’s gender as an Alpha that all the young ones would read. This would have set their young lad up for marriage had he not already been happily married for years. Of course, if one believed Rupert he was just as eager to find a secondary mate and start a full on harem! Sherlock had laughed at that, but Mycroft had given him a very serious stare and nodded his approval. That had shocked Lestrade and John, but no one dared say anything. The young man had his mind made up and only falling on his arse would change it.

XXX

Mycroft hummed happily as he served his son and their friends, bustling about with a giddy feeling in his stomach. He knew this was ridiculous, and he felt it quite a bit, but it was his son’s  _cotillion_. His first-born child was an adult! Married and poised to start his own pack.

Despite his Husband’s orders the youngest twins suddenly burst through the door, giggling wildly and spraying the guests with water from toy pistols. Mycroft shouted at them to leave and herded them out the door before straightening his tie and apologizing to his son’s guests. To his surprise his normally angry little trouble maker just surveyed the damage with a look of wry amusement. He dabbed at his face with a napkin, waited for his guests to clean up, and then stood up smiled at those who had joined him for tea in the library.

“Shall we start the debate? Topic to be voted upon: Omega Rights, Contraceptive, Aid to Uganda, or… Sibling Jail Time.”

A light laugh passed through the group and Mycroft beamed with pride. Once the group was well on it’s way to a hearty debate he slipped out to make sure Wilhelmina- never William- and Juanette were getting the discipline they deserved. He found them both sniffling in their respective corners in the second floor hall.

“What are you doing here?” Gregory asked, looking up from his mobile from where he was supervising their punishment, “I thought you were hosting?”

“I am,” Mycroft replied, “But somehow I doubt Rupert will need a moderator. He takes after me, you know.”

“Puff up any more and Sherlock’s jibes about your weight will look accurate,” Gregory teased while Mycroft chuckled.

“So what were they up to? That was childish even for ten year olds.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Gregory replied with a shrug, “They’re just jealous that their brother gets all the attention today. I’ll take them out after punishment and run them around the park for a bit. Let them burn off all that energy.”

“Preferably  _without_  water guns?”

“Oh, yeah. I confiscated them. They won’t get them back for a bit.”

“Good.”

Having seen to his youngest two he headed downstairs to check on the meal. Rupert had been  _very_ specific when he’d ordered the meal for his friends. Two of them had allergies that were so severe Mycroft had ordered their allergens out of the kitchen  _completely_  until after they went home. Aside from specific diets, many of his choices were representative of his French heritage. Luckily their chef was quite versed in French cooking as Mycroft had a taste for it on occasion.

However, when he returned to the library to check on his charges he found them all sitting rather quietly, one of them sniffling softly.

“Something the matter?” Mycroft asked, hurrying over to the one in tears.

“No,” She replied, eyes drifting to the side.

“Robin is upset because she’s the only one here without a penis,” Rupert explained calmly.

Mycroft’s eyebrow raised and he gave his son a harsh expression, “And just  _what_  were you doing that caused that to be discovered?”

“She told us,” Rupert laughed, “I’d hardly have an orgy in the  _library_ , Mum. We’re ready for the movie now.”

Mycroft bit down on the question of  _where_  his son might be disposed to have an orgy and instead nodded to the guests, “This way to the entertainment room.”

Mycroft led the way down the hall to the room where a large projection screen faced three rows of comfortable crimson chairs. He gestured for everyone to enter but held out a hand and stopped the young lady who had been reduced to tears by her playmates.

“I’d like a word with you,” Mycroft said softly before raising his voice, “I’ll be in shortly, do make yourselves comfortable. There’s popcorn in the popper to the right but I suggest you save your appetites for dinner.”

“Do you want me to go home?” She asked softly once he’d shut the door.

“On the contrary, I want you to walk in there with your chin held high,” Mycroft replied, “Have you presented yet?”

“No,” She said softly, “And… and… I refused to see the doctor. I  _know_  what everyone thinks about me. I just thought they’d be different…”

“And shame on them for not understanding,” Mycroft fumed, “You are either an Omega- in which case bless you and future cubs- or a Beta- in which case you’ll be the glue that holds a pack together.”

“Glue that… I’ve never heard that before.”

“Most don’t look on Betas the way they deserve, but as a former pack Omega and the spouse of a pack Alpha I know one crucial fact: packs  _need_  them. A Beta is the only one who can come between an Alpha and an Omega without causing bloodshed. Betas are the only ones who can take a child from the arms of an Omega when that Omega’s instincts are stopping them from getting treatment for their cub. Omegas you already know about; the most rare gender and the only ones capable of bearing children. Now. Open those doors and strut through them as if you own the building, because some day lives will rely on you being the proud bitch you were meant to be.”

The young woman squared her shoulders tossed her hair over her head, and stormed through the door. She walked straight up to a young man who was pressing himself up against Rupert where he sat in his chair, clearly flirting, and slapped him soundly across the face. The lad gaped at her and she spun on her heal, pinafore accenting her hips, and strode away without an ounce of shame. She sat down as far away from him as she could and folded her arms stubbornly. Mycroft motioned to his son who stood up and headed over, chuckling and shaking his head.

“Your little friend-” Mycroft whispered.

“Needed your pep talk. Thank you, Mum,” Rupert kissed his Mummy’s cheek and then headed back to his seat with a spring in his step.

Mycroft started the movie with a proud smile on his face; his little one wasn’t just grown up, he was mature and intelligent.

XXX

John returned from his date night out with Sherlock with a skip in his step and a few fresh bruises on his thighs. It was just a week until Aiden’s Strong Sixteen and he was eager to see another cub graduate to adulthood. It created a distinct chemical change in the Alphas and Omegas around them that was changing their dynamic, but in a way that John found new and exciting rather than upsetting as he’d expected.

First the Omega’s changed, no longer fussing over and coddling their children. Instead they treated them like equals, though still guiding them when trouble emerged. That change in instinctive response would alter the way the Alphas behaved towards their offspring as well. Namely, the young Alphas were now fair game for Dominating and the young Omegas would become theirs to protect and find mates for. As for the Alphas, they’d either be brought into the pack, trump their parents and take over the pack, or be booted out to find their own pack. This alteration was how they’d finally figured out BG’s gender, though it had taken nearly a year before he’d shown any indicators that altered Greg’s responses.

Since Teodor was older it would make their marriage recognized by the courts as it had Rupert and BG’s. Rupert had refused to have an official wedding, mysteriously stating that he was waiting for a specific time, but Aiden and Teodor had been planning their wedding for months. They were going with an Argentinean wedding and a British reception. It was going to be gorgeous.

Then John walked in and froze at the sight of a hallway littered with droplets of blood.

 

A/N Damn it. This was supposed to be the last chapter. -.- That’s just too good of a stopping point.   
  


 


	62. Chapter 62

John was instantly on alert, lowering his packages to the floor and slowly moving from room to room. He could smell his children’s blood, Sherlock’s, Mycroft’s, and even Lestrade’s. Though the drops were many, they were small and scattered so John held out hope that his family was alive. The house was silent. Too silent for a home full of teenagers and children… not to mention Sherlock.

The trail led John to his own bedroom where he carefully and slowly slipped in, clutching a Japanese statue for a weapon. No one was in the room, not even hiding in the closet. He checked the drawer he kept the small safe in, slipped the key in the lock while carefully ignoring the bloody fingerprints on it, and extracted his Sig and a box of ammunition. Whoever had gone after it hadn’t been able to get it open before they’d been interrupted, and bets were it wasn’t Sherlock or any of the kids as he had no doubt his cubs and their cousins could pick a lock no matter how young they were or how expensive his gun box was.

John left, moving with more surety now that he had a reliable weapon in his hand. He scouted out the entire house until he reached a small puddle of blood. This one looked like a head wound, the outline of a head and shoulders still clear on the floor. John carefully knelt, eyes on his surroundings, and touched the stain; tacky and cold, not too deep. It  _might_  have been a fatal injury, but he wasn’t entirely positive on that number. Not without knowing if they’d walked off or been dragged. John hesitated a moment, his mind shrieking over all the horrible possibilities, and then he brought his finger to his mouth and sniffed.

 _Gregory_.

John rounded the corner into the second hallway and saw the door to the dungeon was ajar. He hesitated to go down. That was a good way to get trapped. It was smarter to wait out here for whoever was down there to immerge… from a room that had a bathroom, bedroom, and supply of food? Unlikely. Besides Gregory and possibly others might need medical help urgently.

John’s internal debate was halted by a noise from the kitchen. He eased his way past the dungeon doorway, closing it as softly as possible and locking it with his key so no one could catch him from behind- assuming they didn’t have a key as well- and moved towards the kitchen. John heard muttered voices and then a soft cry of pain. That sealed it for him. He swung into the room, bringing the gun level with whomever had spoken…

And found his family gathered in the kitchen staring at him in horror.

“John! Put that down!” Sherlock shouted, and John complied despite the lack of Dom voice, slipping the gun into his trousers.

“What’s happened?” John asked, hurrying forward to where Mycroft was attempting to bandage Gregory’s head, “Let me see that.”

John looked him over, noting that he needed stitches, and listened to their silence with a good deal of worry.

 _Where_ , he mouthed to Gregory. The man gave the faintest shake of his head and smiled sadly up at John who stared back at him in confusion. Why were they not answering? Why not tell him where their attacker was? If they were that carefully watched he would have noticed by now!

“If you’re concerned,” Sherlock stated softly, “You needn’t be. Our attacker has been eradicated, Give me your gun.”

John hesitated, then pulled his gun out and walked over to Sherlock. He extended it while meeting his Perfect Match’s eyes. Sherlock’s eyes looked… proud? Not of John. No. Of someone else. Who would Sherlock be proud of in a situation like this?  _His children._  Had BG or Aidensubdued their attacker?

John glanced around. All the kids were accounted for, including his two eldest boys. Aiden was just sitting there with his Omega Perfect Match kneeling at his feet. The last part was new. Teodor hadn’t started submitting yet as far as John was aware, he hadn’t emerged yet and since they were married they both would emerge simultaneously. As of that morning Aiden’s voice had still had an adolescent squeak. BG’s voice had deepened, but he was also kneeling on the floor at Rupert’s feet.

 _His nephews?_  John wondered, and his eyes raised to Rupert.

Rupert came up out of his chair, knocking BG aside, and flew at John. John instinctively sidesteps, hands going up to toss the lad aside. Except he’d controlled his assault, bluffing his wild charge, and came to stand calmly in front of John with a slight grin on his face.

“You? You did this? Your dad needs stitches!” John shouted at him.

Rupert shrugged and then made a feint at John, who was puffing himself up angrily and staring down his nose at the much taller Rupert. He brought out everything his CO had taught him about acting Dominant despite being Submissive and barked at Rupert to stand down.

He laughed.

“ **Kneel,”** Rupert ordered, his voice deep and commanding.

To John’s absolute shock his legs went out from under him and he found himself kneeling before his nephew. The lad stepped forward, caught John’s chin, and latched his mouth onto his neck. A few firm suckles later and his body let out soothing signals, oxytocin reminding him to adore his Pack Alpha.

_Pack Alpha? My SIXTEEN year old nephew?!_

John’s mind rebelled, but a firm hand pushed him down when he attempted to stand again.

“You really don’t want to do that,” Rupert said softly, “Uncle Sherlock’s already accepted me. If you leave the pack you’ll take him and he’ll never forgive you. Besides he’s your Dom. Obey his intentions.”

John keened, his tone submissive even as his eyes cast around in confusion. Sherlock looked completely at peace with the situation. Gregory’s eyes were damp, his eyes both sad and proud. Mycroft simply looked proud, as if his son had exceeded all expectations. He had, of course. Most Alphas didn’t attempt a coup on their father’s pack- if they ever attempted it- until after college. Of course, Rupert was an exception to so many rules. Standing above him now John saw a young Gregory Lestrade, with Mycroft’s hair colour and calculating eyes, but John’s own warmth. He’d helped mould this young man into what he was now, and knowing that let John relax beneath his grasp.

“You’re going to have a hell of a time subduing half the bloody yard,” John pointed out.

Rupert shrugged, “That’s less important than making sure my family is pack. Now then, we have much to do. Teodor and Aiden’s wedding is in a week. Did you get the his presents?”

John opened and shut his mouth for a moment and then clicked it shut and gave his nephew a wry grin.

“Yeah, they’re by the door. Couldn’t get blood on them, now could I?”

   
A/N: Wow. Nearly two years and 63 chapters later (not counting  _Give and Take_  or  _Mollyverse_ ) it's finally done! My first ever fic is complete! (Subsequent Perfect Match Series stories to be posted on Dreamwidth. http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/ or facebook for those who hate DW.)


	63. FAN ART

 

FanArt By 

[Queenoftheuniverse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenoftheuniverse/pseuds/Queenoftheuniverse)

 

Every day’s a bad day  
In the service of the Queen.

On the good days you stitch them up  
And send them out to be slain.

But every day’s a bad day,  
In the service of the Queen.

On the bad day you decorate  
Their toes with tags of green

But every day’s a bad day,  
In the service of the Queen.

On the good days they come back,  
with wounds to dress and clean.

But every day’s a bad day,  
In the service of the Queen.

On the bad days they leave   
And ne’er come back again.

But every day’s a bad day,  
In the service of the Queen.

Poem by Vincent Meoblinn 'Perfect Match' Fanfic.


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